A Day in The Life Summer Challenge Stories
by GalaxieGurl
Summary: As we endure the prolonged dry spell until Bones returns in January 2017, various fan fiction challenges will keep us amused; hopefully. This is the first of my contributions to that effort. Activities and events involving minor Bones characters will be featured.
1. Chapter 1

A Reader's Review

Daisy Wick swiped her access card through the electronic reader and dashed up onto the platform where Brennan was examining a new crime victim's mortal remains.

"Good morning, Dr. Bre-"

"Ms. Wick, please observe some modicum of decorum when entering the lab. Your running up the steps could result in a fall against one of our exam tables, possibly compromising a set of remains, or one of Dr. Hodgins' specimens," Brennan chided her over-eager intern.

"Sorry, Dr. Brennan! I read your most recent X-Files fan fiction story this morning, and it was just superb! Your plot development is really creative and original; unlike any episodes of the show, or other stories I've read there."

"You must have arisen quite early, that composition is rather lengthy. You are on time for work, early in fact, so you must've been speed-reading, or begun it before dawn."

"Well, I do speed read quite well, but I awoke this morning at 5 am when a garbage truck's automated crane malfunctioned and dropped my neighbor's trash bin as it was being lifted for emptying. The crash resounded impressively and woke the whole street!" Daisy explained.

"I couldn't go back to sleep since the noise woke baby Seeley, so I made some tea, logged onto my laptop, and nursed him while I read your story. Of course, Seeley went back to sleep and I was able to finish all 36 chapters. It was really great!"

"You got so many excellent reviews! The readers like your plots better than many established X-Files authors! I created a reader profile under the name of 'DCDaisiekin'!"

"Not particularly original, but fitting, nonetheless," Brennan observed. "I look forward to perusing your comments, Ms. Wick, and appreciate your developing a reader profile. I become aggravated with readers who don't take that step before posting reviews. I try to respond to each person who leaves me a review; letting them know I appreciate their taking time to leave feedback. I find it quite frustrating when I can't share an idea or reaction to their comments because they post anonymously as a 'Guest'."

"Ms. Wick, why are you crying?"

"That was Lance's pet name for me, Dr. Brennan. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by missing him _so much,_ and the sudden strong feeling hits me so unexpectedly, I burst into tears. I'm sorry I lost my composure at work. It's not professional, and I'll try to insure it won't happen again," Daisy stuttered, as she wiped her eyes on her lab coat sleeve.

"Ms. Wick, Daisy, crying is perfectly normal when you've lost a loved one like Sweets; your son's father, your closest friend. Our work environment here is not so sterile that we can't take time to comfort one another. While I do encourage decorum like walking rather than running to safeguard the integrity of our work here, that does not preclude acknowledging the very human emotions we feel; especially grief and sadness. I know I am socially awkward, and Booth is much better at reading people and comforting them, but I assure you; you are a colleague I hold in high esteem, and moreover, a close friend. Your sadness at remembering Sweets is not something I take lightly. If you need a break to compose yourself, or a cup of coffee, by all means take 15 minutes and regroup emotionally. We all feel his loss deeply, but not nearly so sharply as you must."

"Dr. Brennan, that's one of the kindest things anyone has said to me since Lance was killed. I'm fine now, but I appreciate your empathy more than I can say."

"Ms. Wick, our work here deals with crime and violence, and can become emotionally draining at times. Even the most rational scientists can have trouble distancing themselves from the trauma and tragedy we witness here. At one time, I maintained this wasn't true, but Booth and Angela have shown me otherwise. And yes, even Sweets and Gordon Gordon had a hand in making me realize that acknowledging and dealing with our emotions is far healthier than denying them. Certainly there are times when compartmentalizing our feelings is necessary to accomplish our difficult tasks, but we must work through them once the work is complete."

Daisy Wick stared at her boss and mentor in amazement. She realized how much Brennan had changed. Booth had transformed the woman before her from a distant, detached individual into one of her most admired friends. Brennan had always _felt_ and _cared_ deeply about people, but her traumatic past prevented her from showing it openly. The vital work achieved in the Jeffersonian's cooperative environment, obtaining justice for crime victims and their families, had simultaneously nurtured and enriched each member of its staff.

 **A/N: This brief story is not only my first entry in the Summer Bonesology 'Day in the Life' fan fiction challenge, but also an acknowledgment of all the reviews I've received from readers whom I can't properly thank for their comments because they lack a user name and profile on fan fiction. Please know that each review means a great deal to me, and I regret that I can't respond to those left anonymously.**


	2. Chapter 2

The Antiques in the Abernathy

Finn Abernathy approached Cam's office and paused in the doorway, waiting to enter until she had finished her phone conversation.

"Dr. Saroyan, do you have a minute? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Mr. Abernathy, come in. What can I do for you?"

"Well, you know I'm still sweet on Michelle. She'll be home from college soon and I'd like to invite her to go with me and my mama to Antiques Roadshow in Virginia Beach on June 25th. Mama's coming to visit me next month, and she's loved that PBS TV show for as long as I can remember. I wanted to surprise Mama for her birthday, so my aunt applied for two tickets. I entered the drawing for two tickets, and Wendell entered for two more as well. I found out last week that our names were chosen, so we have six tickets altogether. Mr. Bray is taking Andie, his chemo nurse, and I'd like to take Michelle.

"Each person can take two items for appraisal. You might have some old things or heirlooms you'd like to know more about that Michelle could take. If not, my family's got enough antiques to open our own flea market, and Michelle is welcome to take a couple of ours. My Mama and Aunt Trudy will be coming along on the trip. It's about a three hour drive, so I figured we could drive down Friday night, and stay at Aunt Trudy's house, then come back on Sunday after a trip to the shore. I can assure you my Mama and my aunt will be around to chaperone us. Her house is a big old rambling affair, so there's plenty of room. Wendell and Andie will be staying with her too. Would that meet with your approval, ma'm?"

"Finn, I think that sounds like a lovely idea. I can't speak for Michelle; or predict if she'll find that interesting, but you certainly have my permission to invite her, and I appreciate your asking me first," Cam smiled at Brennan's lanky intern.

oooooooooo

Six weeks later, Finn picked up Michelle at her mother's condo for the drive to Virginia. Stored carefully on the floor of his Ford Ranger truck was a scuffled leather violin case. Nestled in its faded velvet was his great grandfather's fiddle and bow. A wooden tool chest containing his great uncle's woodcarving chisels, gouges, planes, files, and knives sat next to it.

In addition to a duffle bag of casual clothes, Michelle brought a cardboard box packed with her great-grandmother's carnival glass punchbowl set, and an antique 18kt gold bloodstone birthstone ring which had been passed down from Cam's and Felicia's great-great aunt Celia. The pair drove back to Finn's little house. He parked his truck, transferred their luggage to his mother's Nissan Quest, then offered Michelle his hand and took the stairs two at a time to the front porch where his mom awaited them. Margaret Abernathy greeted Michelle with a wide smile identical to her son's, grabbed her overnight bag, and waited for Finn to lock the door. Once the trio were seat-belted in, they took off down I-95 toward Virginia Beach.

Along the way, Michelle heard the history of Angus Abernathy's small pottery factory which had been producing stoneware dishes and moonshine jugs continuously since 1832 in Beckley, West Virginia. Mrs. Abernathy was bringing two large clay moonshine jugs for appraisal. She told Michelle the 'XXX' embossed on each stout jug indicated the batch had been run through the still three times. This triple-distilled process insured a nearly-pure alcohol content. "Mighty potent stuff," she assured the delighted young woman.

Stopping for lunch in Richmond, they arrived at Trudy Hannaford's home three hours later. She had lemonade and cookies ready for them, and directed her guests up a polished wooden staircase to cozy bedrooms on the second floor. Andie and Michelle had one room, Wendell and Fin shared another, and Margaret had a small room next to her sister and brother-in-law's 'master suite', as Jake Hanaford jokingly termed the less-than-spacious room crowded with mahogany antiques.

A delicious supper of fried chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, plump homemade yeast rolls, salad from the back garden, and fresh lattice-top cherry pie satisfied the visitors' hunger. Michelle declared she was 'in heaven' after enduring months of blandly-repetitive dorm food. After watching a few Mayberry re-runs (Jake's favorite sjow) on Netflix, the group called it a night in anticipation of an early start for the Roadshow.

Michelle awoke to delicious smells. Trudy had homemade cinnamon rolls, steaming hot coffee, scrambled eggs and crisp Canadian bacon ready the next morning. She showed Michelle the antique food chopper meat grinder which clamped to a tabletop, and vintage kitchen utensil collection she planned to have appraised.

Jake helped Finn carry the ladies' treasures to the minivan, clapped him and Wendell on the back, hugged his wife and sister-in-law, and grinned flirtatiously at Andie and Michelle, as his wife sputtered in mock disgust at her husband's antics.

"I should've brought my mother," Wendell remarked. "She'd love your family, Finn!"

Finding a parking place that didn't cost a small fortune was something of a challenge, but Finn's research paid off and the group secured a space in an all-day lot for five dollars. They hiked three blocks trundling their items on a luggage trolley Andie had brought and arrived at the Virginia Beach Convention Center. Its frigid air-conditioning felt wonderful after the humid morning outside, and the group joined a line of jovial 'Roadie' enthusiasts which snaked back and forth across the queue area marked by straps and poles like Disneyworld.

They compared notes and chatted with the people around them, learning where they were from, and what items they'd brought. The furthest anyone waiting near them had travelled was a couple from Reading Pennsylvania who sported a six foot long, four foot tall aqua plastic Princess telephone marketing model, which the wife's Northwestern Bell employee father had saved in his basement for forty years, and a collection of ornate blue-green glass phone line insulators.

Navy-shirted volunteers directed them to four registration desks, where they were given a ticket for each item to be appraised, indicating the category into which it fit. Glass, jewelry, toys, tools, kitchen, ancient, Asian, furniture, and china were only a few. Blue curtains enclosed the appraisal area, hiding long lines of waiting folks from the television cameras.

Photographers roamed among the crowd, snapping pictures of unique items, like a Peruvian carved wooden figure of a dog perched on a horse, and a scowling painted terra cotta Chinese soldier who had guarded some ancient emperor's tomb before being purchased by an accountant from a Maryland antique dealer.

The Jeffersonian interns and their guests joined various lines to wait their turns for appraisal. More volunteers herded them toward the experts, one at a time, keeping the lines moving briskly, without allowing curious Roadies to wander in front of the cameras. Once a particular item was examined and discussed, they walked to the back of the next line to wait some more. The crowd's festive mood made time pass quickly, as people presented, scrutinized, and complimented each other's family possessions.

Michelle learned that the bloodstone ring pre-dated the American Civil War and had been made in England. Her carnival glass was a rare color and finish, and quite valuable. Finn's antique fiddle was a hand-crafted original manufactured in Scotland in 1824, and his woodworking tools were a century old.

Aunt Trudy's kitchen utensils were too well-worn to be valuable, but their worn surfaces whispered of skilled cooks and lovingly prepared family meals. Four ancient silver spoons had discolored handles and flat edges sharp enough to cut an apple, worn smooth from years of stirring back and forth countless times across the bottoms of heavy metal pots of soup and stews. Margaret's moonshine jugs dated from 1793, and were extremely rare. Her jaw dropped upon hearing the appraiser's state their value. Asked if she was interested in selling them, she demurred with a smile. "These are family treasures, sir, not for sale."

By two pm, the group had stood in multiple lines, consulted with fascinating experts, and heard tantalizing stories of antiques; some valuable, some worthless except for the fond memories and sentiments they embodied. They grinned comically having pictures taken at the Roadshow booth, described their experiences for the Feedback cameras, and donned bright taxicab goldenrod 'Antique Roadshow' t-shirts. They stuffed themselves with artisan sandwiches at a charming open air restaurant, then watched the sun sink into the ocean, relaxing on beach chairs in Trudy and Jake's back yard. An early bedtime insured their energy's resurgence for a morning spent in the surf and sand, followed by a seafood bake for lunch. The young people splashed one another and swam lazily. They joined Jake and Trudy's church choir for an afternoon open-square shape-note hymn sing-along, followed by pie and coffee. At five o'clock, they said their goodbyes and headed back to D.C. arriving home as dusk fell at 8:30 pm.

Michelle slept over at Finn's house, decorously sharing his guest room with Mrs. Abernathy. The three bedroom one bath cottage had cost him $35,000 at auction, much like the Mighty Hut, and he had spent many nights and weekends rehabbing it with Booth's and Wendell's help. Before retiring, the couple took a walk through Magruder Park, holding hands and talking.

"I tell you, Michelle, I've enjoyed my Mama's visit more than a pig in a poke this week, but I'll be mighty glad when she goes back home to North Caroline, so we can get back to normal together. You were gone too long at Columbia, and I'm more than ready for a summer of smooching and loving on you! Now that my little house is fit for a lady, you can stay over once in a while, I'm hoping. Maybe your mom will be preoccupied with Arastoo; possibly a little distracted by her own romance."

"I'll make sure of it, Finn. I've missed you so much this semester, and my course load didn't allow much free time for coming home to D.C. Next year is going to be even more hectic with my internship. The one I got for this summer is part-time and close-in, so it will allow us to spend plenty of time together. Thank you for taking me to Antiques Roadshow. It was a unique experience, and your family is charming. Your aunt is such a good cook! I had a wonderful weekend. It was such a nice surprise!"

Finn put his arm around her shoulder and pulled Michelle close, kissing the top of her head. She turned toward him, lifting her face to his, and met his lips in a warm, lingering kiss.

"It's gonna be a good summer, now you're home, Honey-Girl," he murmured into her hair, and kissed her again.

 _A/N: Thanks to our daughter, I got to go to Antiques Roadshow in Texas this past weekend. What a unique and memorable cross-section of humanity experience. And the beds were heavenly._


	3. Chapter 3

A Day in the Life of Dr. Brennan's Doorman

 **A/N: I've read a few stories in which Brennan's doorman is greeted or consulted or thanked by Booth for watching out for her well-being. I can't recall what name they gave this character. So, just for fun, I'm doing a very old throwback to Mary Tyler Moore's acting days, and using the name of her friend Rhoda's doorman, who was never seen on screen but heard as a disembodied voice. For those of you not familiar with this show, Valerie Harper played Rhoda, and Lorenzo Music was the voice of Carlton**.

The building I consider mine is one of the most prestigious in Georgetown. In reality, I don't own it, my clients do; the residents of this nine-story condominium cooperative. However, for all intents and purposes, it is my domain, mine to oversee, protect, and nurture. I am Thomas Carlton.

You see, I am the senior doorman for Washington Commons. You won't see its name on any maps; it's subtly carved into the stonework over the main entrance, but the inscription is largely concealed by the tasteful burgundy/evergreen-bordered awning which shades the walkway beneath.

This stately old edifice once housed law offices and private offices kept by various members of Congress. In the late 1980's it was transformed into eighteen spacious apartments, two per floor, which were sold as condos to individual owners when the building changed hands in 1996. The people living here value their privacy, which I am charged to maintain. The personalities of our residents run the gamut from flamboyant to shy.

As the doorman of this complex, I watch and observe the comings and goings of those who enter and leave the building; residents, service people, friends, relatives, co-workers. By its nature, my job description includes a non-disclosure clause, but I could write volumes about what transpires within these walls.

One of the most intriguing individuals I've been privileged to serve is more reserved than most. A highly educated woman, she has achieved success in two diverse fields of endeavor. She is both a world-renowned scientist and an acclaimed author. As a result of her technical expertise, she travels quite often for extended periods of time. Upon moving to my building, she enlisted my help to keep her residence secure and maintained during these absences, and compensated me well for the extra services she required. Her name is Dr. Temperance Brennan.

Dr. Brennan joined the Jeffersonian Institution in 1998 as their forensic anthropologist. Various agencies of the federal government have sought her expertise from time to time, identifying remains overseas; primarily the military, CIA, and Homeland Security.

Around 2003, Dr. Brennan began working with the FBI as a forensic consultant, paired with one of their special agents in the Major Crimes Division, a tall handsome guy named Seeley Booth. He was as skilled a cop as she is a scientist. They couldn't be more dissimilar, but their considerable talents are complementary, and their track record for solving difficult cases is impressive.

When I first met Booth, I wondered about his name, and who might be up in his family tree, but it's not my place to ask such things. After he checked in on Dr. Brennan a few times, I realized what a principled man Booth is. Dr. Brennan is one of my favorite tenants and deserves the very best. Booth is exactly that, the perfect partner for one of the finest people I've ever been privileged to know.

Dr. Temperance Brennan and Agent Seeley Booth share a single-minded dedication to their work of finding justice. Beyond that, they couldn't be more different. You may wonder how a person whose job demands discretion could be aware of this fact, but a good doorman is a student of human nature. The old saying that we have two ears and one mouth for a reason couldn't be truer.

In the hours I spend at my station, I listen, watch, notice, and remember. To assist and protect one's clients, a doorman must possess an exceptional memory for details, appearances, demeanor, and the like. While I don't divulge what I see, it's my job to be extremely aware of what goes on around here.

You may think my job would be boring, but nothing could be further from the truth. I might not have the sheepskin to prove it, but I'm a pretty astute sociologist as a result of my studying people. Dr. Brennan and I have shared a few absorbing conversations about the anthropological significance of human behavior.

I have come to know her partner, Agent Booth, rather well because of his vigilant concern for her safety and well-being. He and I share a belief in our 'gut' reactions to people and situations. I can tell when someone's lying to me. I can spot unsavory character and questionable motives in a heartbeat.

While it's usually not my place to act on these observations, you can bet I keep a sharp eye on folks who seem shifty and questionable. They may be innocent until proven guilty, but if someone sets my gut churning, I watch 'em like a hawk.

Over the years, Booth has asked me to be on the lookout for people who might seek to threaten or harm Dr. Brennan. He's inquired how Dr. Brennan's mood seems; if she's coming home to eat, rest, sleep. When that woman is on a quest, or chewing on a problem, she's like a bloodhound fixated on a scent. Her work ethic knows no bounds. When absorbed in a task, she'd work twenty hours at a stretch.

I can tell by their conversations, posture, stride and body language if Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth are in sync or at odds. The evolution of their partnership could be the subject of a NOVA documentary. His friendship and concern have changed the good doctor a little more than she'd care to admit.

I've known for years that she was a kind considerate person, always grateful for my services and more than willing to help me in return. But she is quiet and shy, despite her popular books, and she doesn't open up to people easily.

Booth has left his marks on her, and she on him. Their perennial insistence that they are 'just partners', which even I'm aware of, belies the depth of their true connection to one another. For years, my initial morning perusal of the overnight visitor's log revealed him frequently coming over to work with her in the evening. My nighttime counterpart told me Booth's arms were laden with files and carryout food containers.

Not so long ago, they started trading nights at each other's places. This disruption in their routine was sparked by the violently tragic death of one of Dr. Brennan's interns. The kid was shot by some misguided disillusioned Army sniper. Guy must've gone off his rocker. I was a Marine MP at several embassies, and I can tell you; the extreme stress of combat can get to the best of men. Doesn't matter if it's Vietnam, or Iraq. At any rate, Booth was quite worried about Dr. Brennan's safety, and helped us amp up the security at our building a bit. Not that it wasn't already damned good, mind you.

Over the last few months, I've noticed Dr. Brennan's profile changing gradually. The wife and I have six kids, so I know what a pregnancy looks like. The ampler bosom, followed by a gentle curve and pooch of a lady's midsection, are a dead give-away to a man who's an uncle to 15 little munchkins. I'm also the eldest of a dozen kids, so ladies can't fool me.

Dr. Brennan has told me she can spot an early pregnancy by even more subtle changes; in respiration, facial features, gait, and stance. She's a scientist with three doctorates, so I'd expect no less. But when these changes happened to Dr. Brennan herself, she wasn't quite so forthcoming with her observations.

She wore looser clothes to keep the secret she and Booth were so obviously pleased to share. Their smiles, grins, chuckles, and hugs didn't escape my notice. But I held my counsel as my profession requires, silently celebrating for this pair I've fortunately come to count as friends.

Finally, quite early one Saturday morning, when I was pulling vacation relief, they were heading out for a run, and told me their news with the broadest grins ever. I'm afraid their wonderful news may not be such for our condo community however, as I heard them discussing the Rockville Realty Parade of Homes last Friday afternoon. It doesn't surprise me. The highly polished hardwood floors and elegant rooms of Dr. Brennan's apartment are not exactly child-friendly, and her balcony can't accommodate a swing set or sandbox.

Agent Booth once asked me to pick up his mail when his elderly neighbor was hospitalized and he was away on special assignment. His apartment in Adams Morgan turned out to be above my father's favorite liquor store on Mount Pleasant St. These days it is called The Sportsman, but years ago, it was O'Henry's. The former owner used to be my dad's poker partner, and his son was my best friend all through grammar school.

That little apartment over the store they lived in, where Booth lives now, hasn't changed much. And let me tell you, it is _tiny._ Booth had his son there from time to time, but _four_ people in that little place? Ain't gonna fit!

So I'm afraid that Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth may be moving to the 'burbs before too long. If that happens, I'll really miss the two of them. He is a unique wonderful man, really good for Dr. Brennan.

When my neighbors' nephew went missing from school, Agent Booth told me who to call and what information my sister needed to provide the police to facilitate the search for Randy. They found the scamp safe and sound a few hours later. He and a buddy were trying to rescue a stray cat stuck in the fence beyond the schoolyard.

Well, I've rambled so long here, my coffee's grown cold, and my break ended ten minutes ago. I need to make my rounds on the roof, and check the stairwells. Harvey, our security guard, is off this week. The replacement guy is one we've used before, but I like to double-check things when Harvey's not on duty.

If you ever need a great place to live and you're not hurting for cash, Washington Commons is worth checking out. Pricey for sure, but really nice. And if you need a reference on me, you can check with Dr. Brennan. I know she'll back me up.


	4. Chapter 4

The Mop in the Museum: Octavius Henderson

Octavius "Tav" Henderson cranked the handle of his mop-wringer for the fiftieth time this shift. He had once counted this action out of curiosity, wondering how many swipes it took to mop the floor of the august Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Laboratory's walkways and offices.

He didn't mop the platform six stops above him, where the gleaming stainless steel examination table stood, on this go-round. That area required special cleaning procedures, which he had already taken care of earlier in the afternoon; first thing after his shift began.

The precise science conducted in this area to glean clues, particulates and specimens from the bodies of crime victims, necessitated careful janitorial attention. The maintenance protocols and standards for this department of the Jeffersonian had been developed specifically to protect the integrity of legal evidence found here. Drs. Temperance Brennan and Camille Saroyan reviewed them periodically, making changes to keep pace with the latest forensic 'best practices'.

Henderson had been working at the Jeffersonian for thirty-six years and was proud of his contribution to their accomplishments. Thanks to his Uncle Oscar already working there, Tav had been hired on the trash crew at age 16, working evenings, after classes at Booker T. Washington High School had ended.

Once he'd completed his stint in Vietnam, Tav had rejoined the Jeffersonian cleaning crew and remained ever since. His Uncle Oscar had long since retired, but enjoyed hearing from his nephew about the 'Jeffersonian folks' latest doins" as he called them, and visiting the place occasionally.

Both men were especially fond of Dr. Brennan, who had encountered the elder Henderson her first late night at the Jeffersonian. She noticed the care he took cleaning her office, after inquiring what special precautions her artifacts might require, which she wanted left untouched, and what other preferences she had regarding her belongings. When the next biennial procedures audit took place, Brennan asked Mr. Oscar for his opinion and suggestions for improving dust control and air filtration.

Oscar had showed Hodgins the 'secret' passage from the janitor closet into the FBI exhibit, which he used when Mr. White's team locked them into the lab to examine JFK's likely remains. The old man such took great delight in trading conspiracy theories with the entomologist, that continuing to do so had become a standing joke and tradition between Hodgins and Tav.

After his coffee break, Tav found Dr. Brennan in bone storage examining a Spanish American War veteran with Christine coloring on the floor nearby. Tav was surprised the child was in Bone Storage with her mother, but kept his opinion to himself. The anthropologist had to reach a little further when she bent over the lighted table. Her distended abdomen bumped its edge as the baby within squirmed vigorously. "Dr. Brennan, I think you've got a prize fighter in there. His heel or fist conked that table pretty good," Tav chuckled.

He turned from mother to daughter. "Missy Chrissy, what are you drawing there? You're getting a lot better about staying inside the lines. Is that a T-Rex or a Brontosaurus?"

"This is an `Allosaurus, Mr. Tav," the little girl responded with a grin, and asked a question of her own. "How was Mahalia's dance recital? Mine is next week!"

Tav's first-grade niece went to the same dance school as Christine, and was in the next older class. Her mother Mahonia, Tav's youngest sister, worked at the Library of Congress. Brennan had noticed her volunteering as a high school senior in the Jeffersonian gift shop, and directed her to the Library with a glowing recommendation. There were thirteen children in the Henderson family; Tav being the eldest while Mahonia was second to last.

Who are you trying to identify tonight, Dr. Brennan? "Isn't it past this littlel monkey's dinnertime?" Tav inquired.

Brennan straightened up, placed her hand on her lower back, and pressed hard, stretching her aching muscles. She gave the janitor a pointed look.

"Booth is interviewing _someone_ at the Hoover, and my car is in the shop for some minor repairs. Due to us sharing a car, Christine and I are engaging in worthwhile endeavors until her daddy is ready to drive home. The day care closed early today for staff in-service training, and my dad is out of town visiting my brother, so Christine is keeping me company here.

"Mr. Tav, did you know that everybody has two patellas and two fibulas, and two tibias?" Christine suddenly asked.

The janitor looked at her in amazement, then glanced at the proud smile on Brennan's face.

"I knew your kids would be smart, Cr. Brennan, but shezam! She already knows bone names?"

Brennan grinned. "I found a children's song about bones on the internet, and it seemed to entertain Christine when we were stuck in traffic to hear me sing it. She picked up the scientific names, and was curious, so we bought her a plastic model."

"When Parker was younger, we traced his outline on paper taped to the floor and filled in the bones together. He learned them quite easily, too. I believe people underestimate how adept young children are at absorbing information when correctly presented in an entertaining manner without any pressure."

Tav suppressed a chuckle, thinking to himself for the thousandth time since meeting her, that Dr. Temperance Brennan often sounded as though she had swallowed an encyclopedia.

The lanky custodian glanced at the wall clock behind Brennan. "Well, I've gotta get back to my cleaning, Dr. Brennan, or I'll get 'way behind. You and Christine have a good evening, and tell Agent Booth I said hey."

"Good night, Tav. Give my best to Mahonia, your mother, and Oscar," Brennan replied.

"G'bye, Mr. Tav. Tell Mahalia to come to my recital if she can. Mommy, can we go to hers?" Christine asked with her father's trademark smile stretching from ear to ear.

Brennan gently chided her daughter. "We'll see, honey. You need to quit bothering Mr. Tav. Check my messenger bag; I packed you some cheese cubes, celery sticks, and apple slices to munch on until Dad is finished at work."

"G'nite, ladies….till next time!" Tav called as he disappeared around the corner, and they heard his rolling bucket rattling down the hallway.


	5. Chapter 5

The Agent in the Mom

 **A/N: This minor character fan fic challenge entry deals with one agent's role in Episode 22 of Season Six, "The Hole in the Heart" wherein Jacob Broadsky is spotted at Paula Ashwald's grave in a D.C. cemetery.**

Genny Shaw shifted her phone from one shoulder to the other as she urged her son to eat another bit of peas.

"No, Dad, I'm not assigned to a case just yet; I'm still in orientation for this department, but I did find out what team I will be joining. I am going to learn _SO_ much working in this group! My senior agent is Booth! I couldn't be more excited. He is thorough, considerate of the families affected by the cases he works, and he's so willing to help his agents gain knowledge, insight, and understanding of how to gather information and discover what really happened at a crime scene."

"Thanks, but I picked up diapers on my way home this evening. Tell Mom I bought a week's supply of Hampton's toddler dinners in case she needs them."

"Yeah, I know they're a little more costly, but Danny gobbles them up when he's picky about anything else. Mom does such a great job with him; I want to make it as easy for her as possible. I have to keep my wits about me being an agent, and knowing Danny is with you guys, I can throw all my focus into my work."

 _A month later:_

"I can't discuss the details, Dad, but I'm so upset with myself. I was finally paired to work directly with Agent Booth this morning, and I messed up on something. I should've known better! I apologized profusely; I was so embarrassed. But he was so patient; told me how we'd fix the situation and what I can do better next time something like this comes up. I was wondering if Danny could stay over with you and Mom tonight. I need to do some paperwork to get ready for tomorrow. I'm gonna have to work pretty late, and that would really help me out."

"No, I'll be safe in my office no matter how late it is. I'll have someone walk me to my car, if that'll make you feel better, Dad. But you do know I can handle a gun, right? After all, you're the one who taught me in the first place, remember? I _am_ a Federal Agent, and I did score very high on Hogan's Alley this year! No, I'm not afraid to put one between a perp's eyes, Dad! And I've continued my hand-to-hand combat training practice."

"In fact, Booth's partner sparred with me last week. Now there's a formidable woman! Dr. Brennan could take down any guy, no matter their size! She knows three different forms of martial arts. She gave me the name of her judo studio; the master even gives law enforcement students a sizeable discount on lessons. Dr. Brennan suggested which discipline she's found most useful for self-defense, that I should add to my 'arsenal of moves', as she put it."

"Okay, I'll come by after work tomorrow evening. I'll try to call Danny before bed to tell him good-night, and first thing in the morning. We have to go check out a situation tomorrow quite early; that's why I need to analyze this data tonight, so I'm ready."

"Yeah, I wish I could share all that with you, Dad! You know I won't; you taught me well. You never divulged any confidential stuff to Mom or me about your PD cases. As you always told me, Dad, 'mum's the word', right? Okay, I've gotta get back to work. Love you both, and thanks so much. Give Mom a hug for me, and Danny, too. See you guys tomorrow night. Say a prayer for us to be safe, like you always do. That makes me feel better, you know that, right, Dad? Okay, 'bye. Love you more!"


	6. Chapter 6

Like Pops, Like Me

 _A/N: This summer fan fic Minor Character challenge chapter takes place in the future._

Hank Booth woke up early. For a seven-year old boy on a summer morning, this wasn't particularly unusual, except that the youngest Booth had done so on purpose, having set his Dick Tracy alarm clock last night with Booth's help. He knew this clock was much older than most, and required extra care.

Grandpa Max had sparked his interest in the FBI cartoon icon, having given him a vintage Dick Tracy friction police car for Christmas. Hank remembered how excitedly his father had swept aside wrapping paper and bows to demonstrate the toy along the carpet in front of their Christmas tree. Booth had told his small son about the 'Dick Tracy two way radio' wrist watch he'd had as a child, as the car zoomed over the floor.

The alarm clock was a throwback mechanical wind up; it ticked satisfyingly and had a large bell on top. Brennan's senior publisher had owned it as a child but never liked it, and knowing 'the real Agent Andy's' FBI connections, offered it to his most illustrious author as a thank-you for her latest book's wild success.

Having carefully silenced the clock, Hank threw back his covers, ran to the closet and dressed three times faster than on school mornings. He opened his bedroom door, crept down the hallway, and tiptoed down the stairway to the kitchen. Pulling out whole wheat bread, organic peanut butter, Smuckers' grape jelly, and a table knife, he made four rather sloppy large PBJ sandwiches. Stuffing them into plastic ziptop bags, Hank stowed them in a paper sack and folded down the top. He checked the fridge for cans of Coca Cola (the real sugar kind), then grabbed the box of Lucky Charms from 'way back under the cabinet. Armed with a cup of milk and cereal bowl, he walked carefully to the couch, placed his breakfast on the coffee table, reached for the remote, and selected The Land Before Time off Netflix. Careful to keep the volume low, Hank munched on his cereal and gulped his milk.

Having finished his food, he rinsed the bowl and cup, and stared at the microwave clock. 6:30; time to wake up his dad! Quietly retracing his steps back upstairs, Hank knocked on his parents' bedroom door. _Rule 1 in the Booth household: always knock first, unless you've had a nightmare._ A rumbly voice answered from within. Hank turned the doorknob and cracked the door. His father was propped up on one elbow.

"Let me get dressed. You climb in here and keep your mom warm," Booth whispered to his son.

Hank carefully slid into the warm spot his dad had just vacated, and settled against his pillow. Brennan turned over and kissed the top of his head.

"You two really think I didn't hear that?" she said with a sleepy smile.

"G'mornin' Mommy!"

"Morning, Hank, honey. You stay right with Dad this morning, and don't trip over any rocks on the pathways."

Booth emerged from the bathroom shaved, showered, and dressed. He walked to the bed and extended his arms. Balancing carefully Hank stood, and his dad scooped him up.

"Oof! You're getting too big for this, Buddy! I guess you'd better walk downstairs under your own power." Booth hugged Hank tight, and let him slide to the floor.

"I made our san'wiches already, Daddy, and we've got plenty of Cokes," Hank informed his father.

"You fixed our lunch?" Booth asked.

"Yup, sure did!"

"Okay, let me grab a cup of coffee, and we'll be off!" Booth filled a go-mug from the fragrant freshly-brewed pot of coffee. "Thank goodness for automatic Braun coffeemakers! Can you put the sandwiches and Cokes in your backpack?"

"Sure, Daddy! Mommy put sunscreen and water in yesterday."

"If it gets too heavy, you tell me, and I'll carry it, okay?"

"Nope, I've got it!" Hank said proudly.

Ooooooooooooo

Forty-five minutes later, Booth pulled into a parking space at Arlington National Cemetery, took Hank's hand and walked across the perfectly-manicured grass for ten minutes till he reached the World War II section. Hank ran ahead to a particular white marble headstone and waited for his dad.

"H-e-n-r-y," he spelled out. "Daddy, why doesn't it say 'H-a-n-k' like my name?"

"Pops' friends and family called him Hank, just like you. His full name was Henry Joseph Booth. Your full name is Henry Joseph Booth also."

"You named me for Pops!" Hank declared proudly.

"Yes, we did, Bud. He knew you were coming, but he just didn't quite make it to meet you in person, kiddo," Booth responded with a sniff.

"Daddy, are you okay? Why're you cryin'?"

"Because I miss my grandfather, Son. He was a great guy, and I wish you'd had a chance to know him in person. He would've loved telling you stories, and teaching you dominoes."

"Well, Great-Gran' Pops is in heaven, so he can see us, right? We can eat a bite of his san'wich for him, and his buddy!"

"Yes, we can, Hank," Booth agreed, pulling the paper sack and a can of Coke out of his son's Batman backpack.

He popped the can's pull-tab and handed the Coke to Hank. The boy carefully poured a bit out of the grass in front of Pop's marker, then took a big drink, and handed the can back to Booth, who took a swig.  
"Here's to you, Pops." He extricated a sandwich, and bit off one corner, then handed it to his son, who took did the same.

"Daddy, your bite is way bigger than mine," Hank observed.

"That's because my mouth is larger than yours, Hank."

"Mommy says your dental arch is wider," Hank informed his father.

"Of course she did. Lord, I'm gonna have another squint!" Booth muttered.

"Daddy, what's a squint?"

"It means you're really smart, like your mommy. Let's say a prayer for Pops, then go pay our respects to his buddy James, and my friends, Bub."

Booth stood up, brushed off his jeans, and turned to face Pops' headstone. Hank mirrored his father's actions, and Booth placed his hands on the sturdy little shoulders. The pair bowed their heads for a moment, then gathered their lunch, and walked several rows over to where Pops' friend James Martin rested.

The pair spent another hour and a half wandering amid the sparkling white marble headstones, pausing in front of where Booth's comrades from Iraq and Afghanistan laid. At each, Hank stuck a tiny American flag in the grass.

In the Vietnam section, they stopped at the columbarium to honor Edwin. Booth had reached a peace about his father, and touched the small bronze plaque behind which his urn was held.

Little Hank wondered why this grave was so much smaller than the others, but he didn't question Booth. He sensed that his father was lost in thought, and decided to ask his mother later when they were back home.

Booth spoke and nodded to other families visiting sons, fathers, daughters, and mothers among the honored residents of Arlington. Hank waved briefly to other children visiting with their parents.

Booth pointed out various monuments to his son, reading the inscriptions and describing the battles they commemorated.

"There sure are a lot of people out here, Daddy."

"You mean the visitors? They've come to pay their respects."

"No, Dad, the soldiers."

"It has taken the bravery of many to protect and defend our country, kiddo. America's been around for 200 years, and we've fought many times to keep her safe."

"Should I be a soldier, too?" Hank asked.

"When you grow up, you'll decide how best to help our nation, Son. Some people do so in the military, others serve in other ways, like your mom. She helps figure out who some of the soldiers are, so they can be returned to their families."

"I'm proud of you, Daddy. You were a brave soldier, and now you're an FBI guy, and you and Mommy help all sorts of people," Hank said, looking up at Booth. "I think I maybe wanna be in the FBI, too."

"You've got years and years to figure it out, Hank-o. Your big brother Parker gives concerts to raise money for soldiers' care. Christine wants to be a doctor to heal them and other sick people. Uncle Hodgins studies bugs and stuff to find the bad guys. There's a million ways to help. Let's head home; your mom's gonna think we got lost out here."

"Okay, Daddy, I'll race you to the truck!"

"Not till we're past the graves, Hank! You don't run on top of the soldiers!" Booth hollered after his son, who skidded to a stop.

"Oops, sorry, I forgot."


	7. Chapter 7

Zack: The Evolution in the Apprentice

 _A/N: I was re-watching the sinister Bones Season 11 finale, which creeps me out, and this fic idea popped into my head. I had to get it on paper during the day; I hope it doesn't haunt me later tonight. While Zack was not a minor character during his time on the show, his role has been very minimal during recent seasons, so it seems appropriate to include him in these chapters._

Zack had made admirable progress in his psycho-therapy sessions, analyzing why he had fallen prey to the Master's charms, and agreed to serve as his apprentice; becoming a tool in the man's grisly schemes, an enabler of the dark visions of his twisted mind becoming reality. Dr. Hancock began allowing him occasional supervised visits with his family.

At first his parents and siblings came to see him in Washington DC, and later Zack was given weekend passes to return home to Michigan, always travelling in the company of one of his older brothers, who would come to escort him on the train.

He was also granted greater freedom to work in the computer and electronics hobby centers provided for patients to enhance their recovery. Zack used his months' experience in Iraq to design several prosthetic tools for soldiers who had lost fingers and hands from IED's. At first his injured hands prevented him from doing more than patiently 'typing' on a tablet with a heat-sensitive stylus which mimicked the temperature of a human fingertip and activated various letters and characters to form words.

The software a charitable foundation had provided also allowed Zack to generate drawings and designs of the prosthetic tools he envisioned. Because he was working gratis on behalf of wounded veterans, the foundation agreed to fund the building of proto-types that Zack could then test out, using his own damaged hands as 'guinea pigs' to improve his inventions.

The psycho-therapy staff members working at his institution were thrilled by his ideas, and empathetic mission to improve the lives of soldiers wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan. They felt that Zack's own recovery would be furthered by his contributions to assist other people who had suffered traumatic hand injuries similar to his own, although the explosions causing them had been ignited by their enemies, not by themselves, as was true in Zack's case.

In his darkened room at night, unbeknownst to the center's staff and doctors, Zack was devising a plan all his own, quite different from what he pretended to be working on during the day. His true motivation was to recover full manipulative functions himself. While this might have been a desirable and admirable goal on the surface, it was Zack's hidden purpose for restoring manual dexterity to himself which was truly evil.

Deep in his brilliant but logically-skewed mind, Zack had conceived a twisted mission of his own, one that would have made Gormogon proud.

Once he had perfected his set of assistive prosthetic hand extensions, Zack requested a week's leave to visit his former colleagues from the Jeffersonian. He forged a letter from Jack Hodgins, inviting him to stay at the Hodgins Estate for the specified timeframe, and promising to oversee his activities, medications, and moving about.

Dr. Hodgins promised to send his chauffeur to meet Zack's train on a Friday morning, and return him to the subway station on Sunday evening a week hence. Dr. Hancock was frantically preparing to leave on a vacation of his own, and hurriedly signed off on this plan, approving Zack's request for ten days' leave from the psychiatric center.

His visit with Hodgins would allegedly include a presentation to the Cantilever Group's board of directors for the purpose of requesting additional funding to produce a dozen sets of prototype assistive prosthetic tools. These kits would be given to twelve carefully selected veteran 'wounded warriors' to try out, evaluate, and review with an eye to recommending possible improvements and changes after six weeks of trial use.

Zack carefully packed a duffle bag for his trip outside the institution. Concealed beneath the carefully-folded clothes, socks and underwear, was the prototype set of prosthetic tools, wrapped in clothing to further disguise their presence in the bag.

The institution's attendant was only too glad to drop Zack at the subway entrance; eager to have a few extra hours off, and happy to accept the money Zack offered him for his trouble. The man bid him farewell and good luck at the stop nearest the psych center, then headed for a weekend in Atlantic City.

Once he was out of sight, Zack boarded a different subway train, and headed for the Puppeteer's workshop, which he had leased for cash for a period of ten days. Once there, he unpacked his unique tools, slipped them over his mangled finger stubs, and set to examining the sinister marionette the shop's owner had crafted at his request.

He pulled from his pocket a page bearing the exact outline a skeleton key based upon his recollection of the keys he'd been issued as a Jeffersonian intern. He selected a blank key from the set used as props in the marionette shows staged in this building and set to work with an electric sander. Once the key blank was notched and sanded, he changed out of his casual clothes, and donned a navy blue jumpsuit similar to the work uniform of the Jeffersonian custodial crew.

His photographic memory had enabled him perfectly to reproduce the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab logo in the center's textile craft room, which he affixed to his jumpsuit. He typed an email to Brennan's co-workers, inviting them to meet her at the Founding Fathers to celebrate their progress on the Puppeteer case, knowing that they'd eagerly leave to join her on a Friday afternoon after a hard week's work.

After hitting 'send' with a satisfied smile, Zack pocketed the skeleton key, and walked to the subway to catch the M train, whose 5 pm route would drop him a block from the Jeffersonian's staff entrance. Hiding his impatience with concentration he'd honed during his time in the Army, Zack calmly looked out the subway car's window at passers-by, or read the newspaper he'd bought at the subway's entrance.

Upon reaching his stop, Zack resolutely left the car, walked up the staircase to street level, and proceeded casually down the block to his old employer's august building. He used his key to gain entrance, disabled the security scanner with Sweets' old modified library card, and slipped quietly through the familiar hallways and passages of the Jeffersonian until he reached the Lab.

Knowing Dr. Brennan would be alone, he entered the room of gleaming steel and glass silently, listened to his former mentor's nightmare, then turned off the main lighting. Waiting in the shadows, he heard Dr. Brennan's gasps, labored breathing, and demands that 'whoever was there, show themselves'.

Finally, achieving his first finale, Zack stepped from the murky darkness, confronted his terrified mentor, applied pressure to her neck to render her unconscious, and lifted her into a laundry cart he had waiting nearby. He rolled it to the freight elevator, pressed the button, and descended to the lowest basement level. Once the doors slid open, he rolled the cart into a vacant forgotten janitorial storage closet and gagged the unconscious anthropologist before binding her hands and feet. Lifting her into an empty closet, he sat down to contemplate his next move.

 _To be continued, if and when, my brain conceives another twisted episode in the season that awaits us in agonizingly-long-from-now January._


	8. Chapter 8

The Sister in the Saroyan

I live in a world of art applied to life. I've achieved a fair amount of success in my interior design career focusing as I do on elements of African art when I select textiles, colors, and patterns for the rooms I create. There is a lot more subtlety in the art of Henry Stanley's 'Dark Continent' than you might think.

The prehistoric color palette used in cave paintings are drawn from pigments found in nature: red or brown from hematite, the black of soot and charcoal, yellow from iron ocher, and the rarest, blue taken from silicic acid and iron.

You won't find blue anywhere in the Chauvet Cave paintings of southeastern France. The delicately thin lines in Bushman paintings resulted from hollow thin rods sharpened to a point like quills. My homeland has changed markedly over millennia. Paintings found on the Tassili plateau, now desert, depict a time when Africa was lush and green.

Most Africans were farmers producing root crops and grain. Their sculptures, masks, and ceremonial figures sought the blessings of fertile fields to insure survival. Wet and dry seasons both were essential. Metalwork, leather goods, basketry, woodcarving, textile weaving and dyeing all were native arts that today bring me inspiration for my clients' homes and offices.

Those early Africans produced bronze vessels and sculptures, very detailed castings with ornate surface decorations, intricately-beaded metal arm bands, belts, headdresses, breast-plates and crowns belying extensive wealth among chiefs and aristocrats. Inspiration and designs were drawn from nature and themselves.

Paintings displayed their hunts, rituals, and themselves, but always most prominently the animals they tracked for sustenance across dusty plains, rugged hills. There was always an intense connection between the hunted and the hunters, between rain and life. Others depict fish, rivers, swamps, and tides, whose whims affected their livelihoods.

The vast and varied environments of Africa required different skills to procure food; the people's art reflects the vital tie between nature and mankind. The symbolism and spirit essences captured in masks and headdresses reflect their myths and rituals. These people achieved great artistry with their hands and simple tools, and their vivid imaginations.

I revel in my ancestry. I love the curly tresses I was born with, thick free, flowing, full; these earmarks of my heritage. I love my shapely curves. I am Felicia, unique and wonderful.

I am also a younger sister.

In spite of myself, I have to admit it; I admire my big sister, even though it would take an act of Congress for me to admit that to her.

Unlike me, she goes to great lengths to tame her ethnic characteristics. She straightens her hair, she keeps herself stick-slim, she assiduously conceals her emotions.

We are as different as night and day; and as stubborn and competitive as any man. We grew up in the Bronx. Our father had no sons, so he raised us to be assertive, achieving, hard-driving and focused.

My sister is the youngest coroner New York City ever had. She was first a cop, for more than a decade, then went to medical school, choosing forensic pathology as her specialty. She believes in following the 'rules' as long as they are right. She can be antagonistic and pig-headed, and fiercely loyal to a fault.

I know for a fact that her dedication to doing things 'by the book' once saved her friend and colleague from jail and prosecution, when everyone else had stepped over _the line_ and would have compromised an investigation, if she had not held firm.

Believe me, we've butted heads, more than once, but when push comes to shove, I'll defend my sister against anyone, even Seeley Booth. I am as proud of my sister Cam as I can be.


	9. Chapter 9

A Junior for Jared?

Jared Booth released the lawn mower handle, killing the engine, and mopped his face with a towel he had stuffed in the waistband of his jeans. Having finished his fourth lawn of the day, he loaded his tools into the bed of his truck and headed back to the apartment he and Padme had rented in Adams Morgan.

A few months earlier, he had stopped in at the Sportmans' Liquor store to chat with its owner, an old friend of his brother's. Resolutely sticking to his sobriety pledge, Jared grabbed a six pack of Clausthaler Golden Amber, the non-alcoholic beer he had come to favor and approached the cash register.

Tom Woodson, Seeley's friend, was also his former landlord, and Jared hoped he could suggest some vacant apartments in the area he and Padme could check out. Quite by chance, the second floor apartment had been coming available, so a Booth was living there once again.

They'd been staying in Rockville at the Mighty Hut, and needed a place of their own as quickly as possible if the brothers' rekindled relationship was to survive. Booth and Tempe had been more than understanding and accommodating, but Jared knew better than to take more advantage of his brothers' generosity than was absolutely necessary.

Upon their return from India eight months ago, Padme had found a teaching job at Zachary Taylor Elementary school in nearby Georgetown. She'd had twenty-two energetic second graders, and was currently teaching summer enrichment classes to some of them.

Jared was working as a security consultant for a heavy equipment contracting firm with military contracts in Iraq. He'd taken on the weekend lawn work as an additional source of income, hoping to augment their bank account enough by October when the mowing season ended.

Padme handed Jared a tall glass of iced tea, and gave him a kiss. Draining the tumbler, he grabbed a piece of ice, leaned over the kitchen sink and slid the melting cube over his face.

"Lordy, it's hot out there and the elevated humidity is making it worse. I hope it rains tonight," he remarked as he tugged his damp t-shirt over his head. Striding down the hall, he unsnapped his jeans, walked out of them, reached down to retrieve them, and stepped into the bathroom to shower.

His petite wife watched his retreating form appreciatively. She knew he was sticking to his AA regimen, and was proud of his progress. Stirring the two skillets of Murgh Kari, one chicken, one vegetable; she absently patted her rounding abdomen and smiled to herself.

Tempe, Christine and Booth were coming for dinner the following afternoon, and she was tweaking her grandmother's recipe slightly. For some reason, Indian curry dishes always tasted better after sitting overnight, and Padme wanted this meal to be perfect.

She and Jared had some news to share with the only family her husband had left since Pops had passed away. It had been three months since the couple had seen the partners, or their secret would have been revealed. With her extensive education and knowledge of the human body, Temperance could spot a pregnancy almost immediately.

Padme chuckled to herself. She and Jared had decided to conceal their coming addition for as long as possible. They hadn't specifically avoided Booth and Brennan, but they hadn't gone out of their way to socialize with them either. She knew three-year-old Christine would be delighted by the prospect of a new baby and future playmate.

The little girl was as smart as a whip, and would likely be guessing 'boy or girl' the moment they made their announcement. Padme opened the oven and peeked at the carrot cake she was baking. Her cream cheese frosting was already chilling in the fridge, and two batches of homemade yeast rolls were wrapped in a clean tea towel in the lower cabinet, hidden from view until Sunday.

Jared would've devoured the lot of them slathered in cinnamon butter, had he detected their presence. She had baked them the moment he'd left to mow, so their fragrance would dissipate before his return. She planned a spinach salad and strawberry shortcake to round out their dinner.

The nice thing about inviting Booth's family was that Christine's palate was very well developed for such a young child. She liked Thai and Indian food as well as her parents, and was already begging to learn how to prepare Besan laddu and Balushahi, her two new favorite desserts since Aunt Padme was back in the States.

The water stopped running, and shortly Jared came into the kitchen, rubbing his damp hair with a towel, sniffing appreciatively.

"I hope you made enough curry for tonight _and_ tomorrow! No way am I gonna be able to wait until Sunday dinner to eat that wonderful cooking of yours, Mrs. Booth!" he declared. "You think they'll be surprised by our announcement, or you think Tempe'll spoil it the moment she walks through the door?"

Padme smiled back, "No telling, honey, we'll just have to be prepared for either eventuality. One way or the other, I think they'll be pleased for us, don't you? And yes, I made double chicken Murgh Kari for you. But you must promise to stay out of the onion raita til I get it on the table! Last week you finished it before we even sat down."

"I can't wait to see the look on Seeley's face when he finds out he's gonna be an uncle for real. Their Jeffersonian friends are a great part of their family, but there's nothing like blood relations, and he is gonna love having a nephew! Parker will be excited when he gets here from England next week."

"Jared Booth, we don't know this baby's gender yet! We could just as easily be having a daughter," Padme protested laughingly.

"Nah, honey, I've got a feeling, it's gonna be a boy!"


	10. Chapter 10

A Playmate from Padme

A/N: One of the 'Guest' readers, who I can't thank directly, requested the Booth-Brennan family's actual visit as the next challenge chapter, so here you go. I hope it's what you envisioned.

Padme was up early Sunday morning. Once she had a pot of coffee brewing, she ladled the chilled vegetable and chicken Murgh Kari into two crock pots to heat gradually. Tasting it, she smiled to herself. The flavors had melded perfectly.

While Jared headed to church for Mass, she straightened the tiny apartment meticulously. Although her brother in law had only rented the place, he'd lived there for such a long time, that she felt almost like she would be showing it to a former owner when Booth and Tempe came later in the day.

She rechecked her menu, and started shredding the arugula and spinach for her salad. The sour spicy dressing she prepared contained lemon juice and poppy seeds; not the bacon which many Westerners preferred. Born in Virginia, Padme occasionally ate ham or bacon, loved pork curry, but her grandmother had taught her to cook, and most native-born Indians avoided pork.

She added bean sprouts, water chestnuts, cranberries, mushrooms, sliced hard boiled eggs, celery seed, chopped walnuts, golden raisins, and tart apples. She pulled her yeast rolls from their hiding place in the lower cabinet and whipped unsalted butter with cinnamon and a bit of honey.

As she gave the two pots of curry a stir, knowing that Tempe was a vegetarian, Padme felt confident the dinner menu would particularly please her.  
Her wedding to Jared in India had been a simple but joyous affair, and her family there had bestowed the couple with cash, since shipping physical gifts would have been prohibitive.

She had inherited her great-grandmother's Jaipur blue pottery dinnerware and laid her table with the delicately decorated set. Most Indian cuisine was eaten with your hands, so she and Jared had chosen a simple stainless flatware set. Knowing Christine had recently seen Frozen, Padme had a surprise for her; an Elsa plate, Anna mug, Olaf fork and spoon set in a size perfect for her little hands.

Once Tempe's favorite tea was brewing and all was ready, the frenetic hostess headed to the shower to unwind. Jared returned home with the gladiolas she'd requested, and the couple sat down to await their guests' arrival at 2 pm.

It wasn't long before they heard a rumbly engine cease, the solid thud of heavy doors swinging shut, and an excited high pitched voice outside their door. "Uncle Jared, Auntie Padme, we're here, we're here!"

Christine was overjoyed to see her aunt, who always kept a treasure trove of art supplies and craft ideas to delight her. She jumped into Jared's arms for a hug _almost_ as good as her daddy's, then ran to the kitchen to find the dinner napkins. Placing them on the table had become her special job to help Padme.

Brennan and Booth followed their daughter into the apartment's compact living room. Booth shook hands with his brother and glanced around his old familiar space, now furnished with different things.

"I can't believe this place was open when you needed it! You guys have really fixed it up nicely. Mind if I try out your recliner, Bro?"

Brennan stood back, quietly observing the group. A soft smile spread across her face, and her eyes met Padme's, but she didn't say anything.

"Can I help with dinner in any way?" she asked. "The Murgh Kari smells delicious!"

"Nope, I think with Christine putting the napkins around, we're all ready to eat. I hope you're hungry."

"Famished!" declared Booth, pulling out a chair for his daughter and lifting her into place. Padme had placed a thick dictionary on the seat to boost Christine high enough to reach the table. He then seated Brennan, and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Jared carried in the salad, and grinned at Padme as she placed a napkin covered basket on the gleaming mahogany table, "I knew you baked those rolls of yours. I could smell them yesterday, but I decided to behave myself, and not gobble them all before Seeley had a chance to enjoy at least one."

Once Christine had said a simple grace, Padme urged everyone to 'dig in' and no conversation was heard as they all got busy eating.

"This vegetable curry is just excellent," Brennan sighed with satisfaction, and the tea is perfect, Padme."

Booth gave his sister-in-law his warmest charm smile, matched by the one Jared was sporting.

"Gosh, this tastes great! You've outdone yourself! I love Indian cusine!"

Jared leaned over and kissed his talented wife. "Except for Tempe's macaroni and cheese, you're the best cook around, honey!"

An hour later, with the main course cleared away and strawberry shortcake dished up, Jared stood up and moved behind Padme's chair, his hands on her shoulders, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

Brennan chuckled knowingly, and Booth stared at her, "What?" he asked.

Jared spoke first. "We have some news we want to share, although I think Tempe may have already guessed. You're very hard to fool, you know that, my dear?" he asked his sister-in-law.

"What?" Booth demanded again.

Padme spoke softly, "Christine is going to have a little cousin to play with next spring, around St. Patrick's Day, I think."

"You're gonna have a baby?" the little girl asked.

"Yup, Chrissy-cakes, we sure are!" her proud uncle declared.

Booth smiled broadly at his brother. "Congratulations! I just wish Pops was still here," he said.

Jared grinned back. "Oh, I think he knows. He and Grams are busting' their buttons up there about now!"

Brennan smirked wryly, but held her tongue. _"Who knows, the old guy might just have pulled it off! Maybe I'm wrong about an afterlife!"_ she thought to herself.


	11. Chapter 11

A Serious Phone Call

As he flipped a veggie burger on his backyard grill, Booth's cell phone jangled the theme music from "Dragnet" and he fished in the hip pocket of his shorts for the vibrating device.

"Booth."

"Dad! How are you? Is this a good time to talk? Uncle Jared just called and told me about the new baby Booth on the way; pretty exciting, huh?'

Surprised that his brother had chosen to share his news before Parker arrived, Booth shook his head and grinned at the phone.

"Yeah, it is; he and Padme already told you their big news? With you coming next month, Bones and I thought they'd wait and surprise you at the airport or something. We're thrilled for them, a child might be the best thing that's happened to Jared, now that he's staying sober so faithfully."

"Dad! That's not a very nice thing to say about your brother; especially when he's announcing a baby!" Parker chided.

Booth and Brennan had pondered how to handle Jared's situation with their eldest, even exchanging ideas with Rebecca, and decided that open discussion was the best approach. Their consideration had been triggered by Jared's following the AA steps which include making amends; apologizing to those affected by one's actions. It had been his idea that they inform his nephew of his quest for sobriety.

"Parker, it's a big responsibility bringing a child into the world, and a serious matter. Jared and Padme gave this a lot of thought, and Jared himself wanted you to be aware of his struggle."

"Bones and I had thought we'd talk to you about this once you arrived, but now is as good a time as any, I guess. Bub, you're old enough to know the truth. You're part of a family with some addiction tendencies, and the sooner you know to be vigilant, the better off you'll be."

"You know we are distantly related to John Wilkes Booth, and his father Junius Brutus Booth was a confirmed alcoholic. The man was a brilliant actor, reputed as the greatest on the American stage, but he drank incessantly and it affected his entire family."

"He abandoned his first wife and child in Britain. On tour around America, he had to be constantly monitored by his son Edwin. He was renowned in Britain and famous in the U.S. as a gifted natural actor, but he suffered from alcoholism all his life."

"Pops never had a problem, but you know my father drank too much, just as Jared does, and I have a problem with gambling. Controlling such urges is something we've all three struggled with, and it seems to run in the family."

"It's not ideal talking about this by phone, but Uncle Jared had asked us to tell you at some point, and your mom is aware of our decision. I kind of jumped the gun, but there it is."

"We can talk more when you come next month, when you've had time to think of any questions you might have. It's just something to be cognizant of. There's a saying 'Forewarned is fore-armed' which means if you're ready for a problem, you're better off when it shows up."

"Parker, you there, buddy?"

"Yeah, Dad, just listening. That's a pretty heavy conversation for a Sunday night, you've gotta admit."

"Dang, I just let Bones' veggie burger scorch!"

"You using the new grill Bones and I got you for Father's Day?"

"Yup, I'm really enjoying it, but back to your statement— I guess I got carried away. We can't wait for you to get here. Christine has Bones mark the calendar every day with a big X. She's so excited to see her big brother, she's ready to bust."

"I don't think the day of my flight will ever arrive, Dad; time seems to slow down and drag by one of my visits is approaching," Parker admitted.

Booth chuckled. "Bones would say that's completely irrational, that time is a constant entity, and moves at a steady pace, despite our perceptions."

"You sound like you swallowed Wikipedia, Dad," Parker laughed. "Mom says I need to take a shower. See you in three weeks. Give Bones and Chrissy a hug for me. Can't come fast enough, huh?"

"No, Parker, I wish you were landing tomorrow morning. G'night, Kiddo, we love you."

"Bye Dad, take care, see ya soon."


	12. Chapter 12

The Patriot in the Paper Boy

The newspaper hit the front porch with a thud. Booth pulled his cup away from the coffee maker's spigot and walked to the front door. Opening it, he bent to retrieve the Saturday Baltimore Post. A voice interrupted his thoughts as he straightened up.

"Mr. Booth, can I talk to you a minute?"  
The gangly youngster who handled their neighborhood paper route stood astride his bicycle, looking expectantly at Booth.

"Sure, Kenny, what can I do for you?"

"You were in the Army, right?"

"Yes, I was."

"Well, I'm thinking of joining the service when I finish high school, but when I mentioned it to my mom she got all upset."

"It's definitely a big decision."

"I don't really have anyone to talk to about this. My dad's not around…I thought maybe you could help me—"

Booth sat down on the cedar porch swing, and motioned the boy forward.

Kenny laid his bike on its side, pulled his bag of papers over his shoulders and ascended the steps. He sank onto the seat beside Booth.

"Your dad passed away when you were really young, right?"

"Yeah, he was in the Marines, in Fallujah."

"That's a hard thing to bear when you love someone. You think maybe your mom's probably worried about losing you too?"

"I don't know, Mr. Booth, but it seems like we're still fighting in the Middle East, and I want to do my part like my father did. I wanna be as brave as he was!"

"You know joining the military is a big decision It's a serious commitment, and one you can't undertake lightly."

"Yes, sir, I know that," Kenny said firmly, looking Booth straight in the eye.

"You're how old, Kenny, fourteen?"

"Yes sir, middle of last month."

"You're a freshman at Cleveland High School now?"

"No, sir I'll be a sophomore; my birthday falls before the cutoff date."

"Well, you have three more years until you graduate, so you have some time to consider your choices."

"I'm sure that's what I want to do!"

"Well, Ken, in deference to your mother's feelings, why don't you put your thoughts down on paper and explain to her why you're so interested in following your dad's footsteps? Are you active in Junior ROTC?"

"No sir, but I thought I'd sign up this year."

"That might be an excellent idea. Participating would take care of your phys. Ed. credit and give you some idea of what the military is like, at the same time."

Booth smiled at the boy. "Might also give your mom a chance to get used to the notion that her son is a patriot."

"I understand why she is worried. I lost a lot of friends in combat, and it was very hard to accept, even though they gave their lives for a good cause, defending our freedom. Losing a family member is even tougher, especially a spouse like your mom did."

Kenny was silent for a time, then spoke softly. "I know, sometimes it's hard to remember my dad. I was six when he died. I talked to my grandpa, but he just got all quiet and had tears in his eyes. Mr. Booth, even he was in the service! Grandpa was a naval aviator in Vietnam. My uncle is an Army sergeant, stationed in Germany right now! How can my mom be surprised when I want to do the same thing? Our whole family is military!"

"Could you talk to my mom? Make her understand? She knows you were a big hero over there!"

"Son, I'm not a hero. I didn't do any more than any of the other soldiers, just my duty. The people like your dad are the real heroes."

"Kenny, I'd be glad to answer her questions, but this is something you and your mom need to resolve between yourselves. I think if you give her some time, she'll come around, but you have to respect her feelings and concerns."

"Military service can give you money to pay for college; that's one of the reasons I joined. I had a basketball scholarship but I blew out my shoulder and couldn't play anymore, so I lost that funding."

"There's an early sign-up program for high school seniors, but that's not right for everyone. You may want to go to junior college for a year and then sign up."

"You've got several years to prepare for this decision. You can work out to build up your strength and endurance, and talk to your mother about why this is important to you."

"I admire your desire to protect our country, Kenny. If you or your mother would like to talk to a recruiter about programs that might fit your ideas for your future, I can help you arrange that. It might reassure her a bit."

"Why don't you give her my card, and if she'd like to, she's more than welcome to call me. I've got one in my truck; let me just get the key."

Booth stood up from the swing, went inside, and grabbed his SUV keys from the entry hall table. Unlocking his truck, he pulled a card from his briefcase, and handed it to Kenny.

"If you like, and your mom approves, I can take you shooting some day at a range. Or maybe you can she could go together. Bones enjoys shooting."

"My mom already knows how to shoot, Mr. Booth. My dad made sure he taught her before he went overseas!"

"Oh, Rats, look at the time! I've gotta finish throwing my route, or I'll catch heck from my supervisor. Thanks for talking to me, Mr. Booth!"

"Come back by when you have more time, Kenny, and bring your mom. She sounds like quite a lady! Bones and I would like to meet her."

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Booth. I gotta go!"


	13. Chapter 13

Revelations over Pizza

 _A/N: This chapter ignores the fact that Jared was killed early in Season 11, and takes place in the future when Parker is 18._

Parker Booth was working fulltime at the Smithsonian as a security guard for the summer. It was a job he held part-time during the school year. He had resolved to get a position all on his own, without utilizing the influence of his father or step-mother.

He had purposely applied for the position while visiting his mother in England over Christmas to divert attention from his connections to the FBI and the Jeffersonian. Legitimately using his mother's UK address added to his levels of subterfuge.

He had moved back to the States the summer prior to his junior year of high school in order to spend more time with Booth and Brennan. His mother felt that her son needed his father as he matured into manhood.

As much as Rebecca knew she would miss him, she acknowledged to herself it was time for Booth to have his son around fulltime. Their custodial arrangements were reversed so that Parker now spent holidays with his mother as he had once done with his dad.

Parker called his uncle one June afternoon, and asked Jared if he could meet him for dinner that evening at their mutually favorite pizzeria in Georgetown. Wondering what his nephew had on his mind, Jared readily agreed and called Padme to let her know he'd be home later in the evening.

He reached Papa Lallo's first, and chose a table in the corner from which he could see the entrance and windows. Like Booth, his military training never really left. He subconsciously wished to be able to survey his surroundings as he ate.

Thus he spotted the tall young man striding down the sidewalk before Parker knew he was watching. Aside from his hair being dark blond like Rebecca's, he bore an ever more striking resemblance to his father.

His shoulders had broadened, his torso was similarly lean and muscular, and his hands were as large as Jared remembered Pops' and his dad's.

The bell jangled as Parker pulled open the pizzaria door and entered the Italian-themed restaurant. He spotted Jared immediately and grinned. After a word to the host, he walked quickly over to Jared's table, shook hands, and sat down.

"Hey, Bud, how are you? Seems like you're six inches taller every time I see you! Great idea sharing supper at our favorite pizza place tonight; thanks for calling me," Jared said. "Any particular reason you wanted to get together?"

"Uncle Jared, I want to ask you something about my grandfather. In the past, Dad always seemed to get reticent or agitated whenever I'd try to talk to him about Grandpa. As a result, I haven't even tried to bring it up for several years. I don't want to upset him. I don't know much about him, and thought you might be more willing to fill me in."

The waitress approached their table, awaiting their order. The two men split a large Ultra-Meat Special, thin crust, extra sauce, and requested iced tea to drink.

Jared waited until she walked away before speaking. "Parker, I don't mind at all. Me telling you about this might not please your father, but you're eighteen, and old enough to know the truth about things. Your dad is sensitive about our father because the man wasn't very kind to us growing up."

"He had PTSD issues from flying combat missions in Vietnam, and back then the military didn't offer nearly as much support for soldiers returning from active duty. They didn't know as much about how to treat battle stress, and didn't have the helpful programs for 'invisibly wounded warriors' that they do now."

"Our dad was a barber, and he worked hard to support us and Mom. But as I believe you know, he had a drinking problem that started when he tried to forget about the war. When he drank too much, he became angry and took his frustrations out on his family."

Parker stared at his uncle. "You're saying he was mean to you guys?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm implying. Dad would beat up on Mom, and us. Sometimes verbally, sometimes physically, often both. He didn't drink all the time, and he was a a great dad when he was sober. But when he did drink too much, it wasn't pretty. Mom took the brunt of it when we were little, and attempted to hide it from us, and shield us."

"As he got older, your dad started trying to protect Mom and me. Usually he provoked Dad into whaling on him instead of us. A lot of times, he took the blame for something I'd done, that made Dad angry, to keep him from hitting me."

"After years of this, Mom couldn't take it anymore. Dad pushed her down a flight of stairs and she landed in the basement with a broken arm and a hip injury. You might have noticed when she came to town a few years back, that she walked with a limp. Well that's why. We thought she'd gotten sick and had to go away, but the truth was, she was terrified of him, and just left."

"She left you with your dad, when he beat you up?" Parker asked incredulously.

"Well, mostly Dad beat up Seeley. He'd send me down to the park until Dad would leave to cool off."

"When he was thirteen and I was eight, he whacked Seeley good, hit his head on the kitchen table and beat him with a belt. Then he hollered at us that we'd get no dinner, to beat it upstairs. What we didn't' know was that Pops had come over about that time, and seen what Dad was doing from the window as he walked up to the front porch. Once we were upstairs, Pops told Dad to get out, that he didn't deserve to be a father,that he was ashamed to see his son beating up a little kid, his own child. He told him to leave and not come back."

"He came upstairs and cleaned up Seeley's forehead and his split lip, then made us grilled cheese sandwiches and put us to bed. He sat by our side all night long. The next morning, he packed up our clothes and drove us to his and Grams' house. When school started that fall, they enrolled us in Bala Cynwyd at St. Joseph's and we never went back to King of Prussia."

"Your dad got involved in eighth grade sports, and by the time he started high school, he was a good athlete and made friends quickly. It was a lot easier getting to know kids at school when you didn't have to worry about them coming over to play at your house and then seeing your father get angry if he was drunk. That's hard to explain to other kids and it's really embarrassing."

"Your dad continued to watch out for me, stick up for me, rescue me from myself sometimes, too many times, in fact. Until Bones made him stop, so I'd grow up and fend for myself, face my own mistakes."

"Your dad is a protector at heart. I think that's partly why he went back to Afghanistan when you were little. He tries to defend and rescue everyone."

"What ever happened to Grandpa?"

"He tried to get sober quite a few times, never succeeded until a few years ago. By then it was too late; his health was ruined. His kidneys and liver were messed up from all the liquor and alcohol. He died at the VA Hospital eight years ago. He came around once, after he got sober, and tried to make amends, but he knew your dad and I wouldn't really want a relationship." 

"He told us he was sorry, that he knew he couldn't make up for what he'd done. It helped a little. Made Pops really sad to see him so sick, but they made peace with one another. He wrote me a letter before he died. He wrote some to Seeley in a letter to Pops, and asked him to read it to your dad. He knew Seeley would have just ripped up anything he sent directly."

"Alcoholism runs in our family. It can really mess you up. I lost a job because of it. I never screwed up in the service, but it still cost me in terms of success. Nearly lost Padme. That made me realize what I needed to do, to get straight. That's why I told your dad a few years ago, to let you know about my addictions. So maybe you won't fall into the same traps. You gotta stay on guard all the time, 'cause our bodies have an affinity for liquor, and a chemical imbalance of some kind. Tempe could probably explain the science that causes it to you. But the main thing is, just don't drink. It's too hard to quit, once you get hooked."

"Look, Parker, you need to let your dad know that we talked. Tell him you're grown up now, and want to know his thoughts on all this. He'll understand why you came to me, I think, but you need to make him aware that you now about our Dad. Seeley had his addiction issues, too, as you know, but his weakness was gambling. Just as hard to overcome, once you're hooked. He's a strong man to have fought through it, but Temperance helped him a lot. They'll explain it to you in their own good time, I think, if they haven't already."

"Look, I enjoyed the pizza, and seeing you. Serious dinner talk, but you needed to know. But I told Padme I'd be home by 8:30 pm, and it's 7:45 now, so I've gotta get going. Take care, Bud, and if you need to talk more, just holler."

"Thanks, Uncle Jared."

"G'nite, kid."

"Good night. Tell Padme thanks for me."


	14. Chapter 14

The Observations of the Obsessive Fan

This chapter is VERY AU and takes place sometime in the future.

Dear Diary,

Today is a sad day for justice in Washington DC. Director and Supervisory Special Agent Seeley Booth is retiring from the FBI. He is the only Director who maintained an active presence in case investigation from time to time. This has been largely due to his partner Dr. Temperance Brennan, who said she'd never work with any other FBI personnel.

Many years ago, when this pair first met and began working together, I also had a slight role in establishing their partnership. As you might recall, from entries I've written about Dr. Brennan in the past, this crime-fighting duo investigated the death of a friend of mine, Cleo Eller. Once Cleo's body was discovered weighted and sunk in a reflecting pond at Arlington National Cemetery, during routine maintenance, the stagnant two and a half year old investigation into her disappearance was reopened.

Dr. Brennan identified her remains, and Agent Booth set to work bringing her killer to justice. I first encountered Dr. Brennan when they came to my apartment with questions. I could see why their suspicions were aroused by my behavior, but they seemed to accept that I meant Cleo no harm.

I actually contributed to the search for Cleo's killer by directing their attention to Ken Thompson, that scumbag assistant to Senator Alan Bethlehem. I knew the Senator couldn't keep his zipper closed, but I was sure he didn't kill Cleo. It was Ken who prevented me from seeing Cleo and protecting her.

My advice was instrumental in fingering that control freak Senatorial aide, who didn't aid anyone in reality. I followed Dr. Brennan from Bethlehem's mansion to Thompson's house to be sure my new friend was safe. I never trusted that slimy weasel. Dr. Brennan was skeptical of my offer to help, but when Agent Booth arrived, he had me restrain Thompson, and apply pressure to his bleeding leg. It was my pleasure to do so, as that was quite painful for him. No more than what he deserved after killing my friend Cleo, mind you.

Dr. Brennan obviously knew how to handle a gun, and I kept my distance from her after that, except for attending her book signings. She was, and still is, one woman you don't want to mess with. And what a woman! She's been my idol for years.

Dr. Brennan is continuing her work at the Jeffersonian, but with Agent Booth retiring, her consulting on crime victim identification is over. I'm sure the FBI will keep on solving crimes, but their efforts will be hampered and far less effective without the dedicated instincts of Director Booth and the enormous forensic talents of Dr. Brennan.

After Dr. Brennan wanted to keep one of my little Lives of the Saints books, they became very special to me, and I never discarded that particular box. I've kept them all these years, just in case Dr. Brennan ever needs or wants to have another one to examine, or as a keepsake.

I know she has to maintain a personal distance from her fans, and I've respected that, but I believe she values me as a friend, and is pleased by how much I admire her. I always took pains to follow Agent Booth's admonitions. I sure don't ever want to tangle with him, or arouse his ire, after the way he broke down my door to look at my play-acting puppets that time that a killer copied the methods in Dr. Brennan's latest book. He thought I was stalking Dr. Brennan, but really I was just helping him keep her safe. Wrapping those figures in red tape was just my way of re-enacting the murders she described in her book. I never meant anyone harm, nor hurt anyone with my imaginative play-acting.

Well, Diary, I must close and go examine my Temperance Brennan book signing ticket collection to make sure it's all in good order. But mark my words, the criminals of Washington DC and the crooks in the government will have an easier job of hurting the rest of us, now that Agent Booth's and Dr. Brennan's crime fighting days are over.

From the Diary of Oliver Laurier


	15. Chapter 15

Hank Booth opened the door to his sister's room and peered in hopefully.

"Chwistine, can you make my bed?"

"No, Hank, I'm trying to sleep. 

"Can you _help_ me make it?"

"No Hank, go away, I'm tired."

"Can you teach me how to make it."

"O-kay, I guess, but you're gonna hafta wait until later than 6:30 am. It's Saturday and you'll wake Mom and Dad. Go back to bed and look at a book, or draw a picture of some Ninja Turtles for awhile. They work really hard, and they need some rest. Besides, Grandpa Max is taking us to the zoo today, so you should go back to bed and rest your feet for all that walking we'll be doing".

"Chwistine, can you sharpen my crayons? They don't have any points anymore."

"Hank Booth, Leave. Me. Alone. 'Til the big hand is on the 6 on the bottom of your clock, and the little hand is on the 8! There is a plastic sharpener inside the box of crayolas you have. Stick the pointy end in and turn the crayon. The plastic edge will make a new point for you, okay? Now let me go back to sleep; Pllleeease!"

"Sigh. "O-k-a-y. But remember you promised to teach me how to make my bed."

"H-A-N-K! Get outta my room!"

"Okay, okay, I'm goin'."

Hank trudged back down the hall to his room and clambered back up on his bed. He reached over on his night table and picked up _Moo, Bah, La La La_ , and _The Going to Bed Book_ , and 'read' them softly to himself. His parents, Parker, and Christine had read them to him _so_ many times, that he had the words memorized. So he really was able to read these two favorites for himself. He grinned proudly, giving his teddy bear a hug for good measure. Then he read the books to Agent Bear all over again.

Tiring of this pastime, he slid out of bed again and walked quietly over to his IKEA table, where a tub full of crayons sat next to a large stack of art paper his Auntie Angela had given him. He plopped down in the chair painted with his name, again by his talented aunt. Reaching for a piece of paper, he stuck his tongue out and considered what to draw. A half hour later, three dinosaurs on his page were craning their necks into treetops to chomp on their leaves. Hank painstakingly printed his name, and thought to himself that he was lucky to be himself, and not his sister, with her much longer name! Convinced that a _hundred years_ must have passed since he'd awakened Christine, the youngest Booth looked over at his digital Batman alarm clock. 7:15 he read to himself. Rats! Still more time to wait.

Hank returned to his bed, and picked up a comic book about "The Land Before Time" that had once belonged to Parker. He was so proud when his big brother presented it to him with an admonition to treat it carefully. And he had. He was very cautious when reading it. He hooked his arm around Agent Bear, and opened the book. Before he'd looked at the pictures in the first chapter, his head began to nod, and his eyes to close.

An hour later, Christine, true to her word, came to help Hank make his bed and found her little brother slumped against his pillows, his face planted in Parker's book, sound asleep.

"Kids!" she chuckled to herself, and curled up next to Hank to wait for him to awaken. She'd show him how to make his bed just like their dad had showed her. "As good as the military does, Missy Chrissy!" Booth had declared. "You should be able to bounce a dime on the top sheet!"

Christine had never accomplished that particular standard, but she did know how to make a bed well enough to teach her eager sibling. In the meantime, she planned to catch another nap.


	16. Chapter 16

Noel Liftin in Action

 _A/N: MoreBonesPlz requested a chapter about Noel Liftin, the extremely odd 'Stoner Stalker' from The Secret in the Soil, The Man in the Outhouse, and The Daredevil in the Mold episodes. I hope this is what she had in mind._

Noel was busy counting the tiles of the Royal Diner's linoleum floor as he waited for Agent Seeley Booth to meet him. He had already mentally tabulated how many passers-by were wearing scarves on this chilly October afternoon. Just as he was casting about for another activity to while away his idle moments, the front door of the diner swung open, and Booth strode in.

He had intentionally approached from down the block past Noel's line of sight, or the self-proclaimed naturopathic salesman would have noticed his arrival and assessed how many more gray streaks had been added to Booth's dark well-coiffed hair since their last meeting.

"Hey, Noel, how've you been? A bit nippy out there, isn't it? Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" Booth asked his erstwhile informant.

"Hey, Booth, I'm fine. How's your family? Did you know there were 19 people wearing red plaid scarves, and 14 wearing navy ones today among the folks who walked past the diner's window while I waited for you? That's 3.225 % more red scarves than blue, in case you wondered."

"Is that so? Noel, you never cease to amaze me with your unusual observations and calculations! Your math teachers must have loved having you in class when you were in school," Booth commented with a grin as Martha brought two cups of black coffee to their table.

After she had stepped away, Booth leaned toward Noel and spoke in a confidential tone. He knew from experience that this was the best way to gain Noel's full attention and grab his interest in whatever task Booth might need him to carry out.

He was aware that Noel's powers of observation were especially sharp, naturally enhanced by his tendency to fixate upon become obsessed with objects and people who interested him. He didn't intend to be a stalker, although that's how he came across.

Booth had long ago realized that Noel was as harmless as Oliver Laurier, although equally creepy; and that occasionally both of these quirky guys could quite useful as information gatherers, since they didn't look anything like a cop or a special agent, and generally managed to avoid calling attention to themselves while they noticed and remembered _everything, every detail_ they saw with perfect clarity.

He knew that Brennan had an eidetic memory, and Noel was similar to his wife. Although an odd individual, he was always happy to comply with Booth's requests for information, and had actually contributed to solving several FBI cases. Booth knew better than to share this fact with Noel, as he might become obsessed with Booth himself, or worse, with Bones. But when he needed a unique undercover operative, Noel was sometimes a perfect, if incredibly odd, 'go-to guy'.

"If you'd be willing to keep an eye open for me, I'm looking for an unscrupulous drug representative who sells homeopathic constipation remedies to health food stores in the DC metro area. His products haven't been as thoroughly tested as those mung bean enemas you favor, and the FBI suspects he might be responsible for people becoming very ill from using the preparations he hawks."

"Please take this picture of him, and keep a lookout for him as you make your rounds to your customers, it would really help our latest investigation. It's possible that the emetics he's promoting contain hallucinogenic substances like cocaine or tainted LSD."

"We need to bust the drug ring he's involved with, but we haven't been able to observe him formalizing an illegal sale. Perhaps there's a new mung bean brand you'd like to try, but can't afford. I can pay you $50 if you see this creep in action. I know you'll keep a low profile to stay safe, and I could really use your help."

"Sure, Booth, I'll be glad to help you out. What area of town are you concerned about?"

"The Adams Morgan District primarily. If you see anything suspicious, text my cell phone. Here's my card. Thanks a lot, Noel. What do you say we meet here for coffee same time next week, if you don't check in with me before then?"

"Definitely, Booth. I'll see you next week, same time, same place! Thanks for the coffee. By the way, did you know if you add oil of bergamot to your morning coffee, your eliminations will increase three-fold in volume?"

Booth turned a slight shade of green, and resisted the urge to 'barf in his mouth' as Parker so eloquently described it.

"You don't say? That's really intriguing! Well, I've got a meeting in half an hour, I need to run. Thanks for your help, Noel. See you next week. Take care."

Booth stood up, pushed back his chair, pulled a few bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table, nodded to Martha, and walked out of the Royal Diner. He would have shaken Noel's hand, but he could never be sure what the man might have just touched.

"Egads, that guy is an odd duck! Bones would tell me the never-ending variety and vagaries of human behaviors are what keeps life interesting. AS for me, I could do with a little more dull boredom after a session with Noel Liftin!" Booth muttered to himself as he unlocked his SUV and slid into the driver's seat.


	17. Chapter 17

Julia Cullen

 _A/N: This chapter involves FBI Deputy Director Sam Cullen's wife. At first I couldn't find her first name and figured the Bones writers never revealed it. When the hospital transplant coordinator's assistant hands her boss the teenager's file, she says "Cullen, Amy A." So at first writing, I assumed Amy's middle name might be from her mother and used Alice for the sake of this story. But then FaithinBones helped me out with the fact that Mrs. Cullen's name is actually Julia. It didn't dawn on me that I had used a name from a Twilight character either. So, I'm correcting her name, but don't want to confuse any readers who might have seen my first draft. Hence the too-long explanatory author's note._

I just had to come out here to get some fresh air. It just isn't fair! Our daughter shouldn't be stuck in that hospital bed upstairs. What fifteen year old girl gets lung cancer?

She ought to be flitting through the halls of Patrick Henry High School, jabbering a mile a minute with her friends, charming her art teacher with her amazing skills, flirting a bit with that cute Jeremy Mills who's been fawning over her for the last six months.

(Although the idea of Sam Cullen's baby girl flirting with any male would send her dad into worried fretting.) I can just hear him now.

"Julia," he'd say, "who's this Jeremy character who keeps calling for Amy? She's too young for boys! A walk to the park? The home-coming dance? No way, that's not gonna happen, not on my watch!"

 _Peritoneal mesothelioma_? My baby girl has _what_? It sound like the name of some evil bacteria! She went into surgery for a bone graft to stabilize her broken leg, for God's sake. She was snow-boarding in Colorado, not chain-smoking for fifty years, not laboring in a factory for years!

 _Years!_ That's what my child doesn't have! Time is slipping through our fingers, as her life is slipping away 'like sand though an hourglass' as that old soap opera used to intone. We were so hopeful the day that Agent Booth brought Dr. Brennan and Ms. Montenegro to the pediatric ward to show Sam what they'd discovered about that body.

The powerful experimental treatment Amy was receiving was supposed to give her a chance; kill off those insidious cancer cells. Agent Booth thought he was helping by shushing Dr. Brennan, but thank goodness she kept asking us questions, and examined Amy's x-rays.

Otherwise, we'd have never known how our daughter contracted cancer. Her discoveries didn't change Amy's prognosis, but they brought her justice, and gave hope to a few other unfortunate victims of this shameful scam.

And Angela! Her sensitive compliments, asking to see Amy's drawings gave our daughter a feeling of pride, and hours of pleasure in the midst of her pain. Those two are kindred spirits. They sat in the hospital gardens, discussing Manet. Angela's digitizing her yellow flower picture showed Amy new possibilities for her art, that computers are just like a paint brush.

And her bringing the Louvre to our child! What a stroke of genius Angela had, or maybe it was Dr. Hodgins' suggestion that gave her the idea. Either way, Amy adored the chance to see Paris, even through that odd virtual headgear. She can't fly to the City of Lights, but she _saw_ her dream art gallery, walked through it, absorbing its beauty and history and wonder, thanks to Angela. She's like Tinkerbell, sprinkling pixie dust on my daughter.

All of those 'squints' worked so hard on our daughter's behalf. I've always known what a contribution the Jeffersonian team makes to the FBI; how incredibly valuable their research and science is to solving difficult cases, finding the criminals, proving their guilt. But to experience first-hand their dedication and genius; that has meant so much to Sam and I.

And Booth! Quietly using his sick days to investigate who caused Amy's cancer! The man never asks for recognition or praise. He just sees an injustice and sets about rectifying it as best he can. My husband is such a good person. Sam would never misuse FBI resources for personal gain, or even request special treatment.

But Booth just investigated anyway, on his own time; made sure our child received attention, our questions were answered, our confusion was cleared. He couldn't restore Amy's health, but he caught that miserable woman who stole it from her.

Obtaining that bone sample Dr. Brennan suggested was miserable for Amy, but she took it like a trooper. My daughter is just like her dad. Tough as they come on the outside, doing whatever it takes, but sensitive and sweet on the inside.

She will fight fiercely, accept any treatment that might help, no matter the pain. She will grab as much life as she can. She's tried to shield us, knows how serious her illness is, tried to pretend it didn't hurt. She's mature beyond her years.

The clinical trial hasn't worked, they say. I knew the minute the doctor said she needed to speak to us privately, that the news wasn't good. Our daughter won't live to get her driver's license, go to art school, or fall in love. It doesn't matter how much time she has left, we will cram as much living into each minute as we can.

Why wasn't it me? I've had a good life, a good man! I've known joy, and love, and motherhood; so many things my daughter won't ever experience! I just want to scream at God and the Universe and Fate! Why my baby, my daughter, my Amy? Go torture somebody else! But railing against this injustice does her no good. I have to dry my eyes, re-assume my smile, and go back in her room. Be there for her, to face what's coming.

And then, Sam and I will have to face a future without her. It just isn't fair! She doesn't deserve this! And neither do we!


	18. Chapter 18

The Friend in the Neuro-Surgeon

Dr. Jursik

It's been a few years now since I received an urgent phone call from my good friend Dr. Temperance Brennan.

We've kept in touch since we were Human Anatomy lab partner sophomore year at Northwestern University. She and I were in the same boat, studying our asses off, and working several part time jobs simultaneously to pay our tuition and fees. We both had scholarships and grants, but this very welcome financial aid didn't cover all our college expenses.

Thank goodness for Spartan dorm rooms, with their non-descript linoleum floors, hard as rock beds, and community bathrooms 'way down the hall. Without those outdated but affordable accommodations, we might have been sleeping under the stadium bleachers. (My wife might not have appreciated that, but she would have understood. Her family was a little better off than ours, and her dad was a professor, but she still worked on campus in crappy-paying jobs to make ends meet.)

Tempe was even in a scholarship dorm, which required the girls to take turns performing janitorial tasks, and cooking meals in return for a cheaper room rate. I bussed tables at a fraternity house, cashiered in the bookstore, and looked after athletic equipment until junior year, which I landed a lab assistant job in the chemistry department. By then, Tempe was a teaching assistant for freshman biology classes. There was no job too paltry for either of us when it came to getting through school.

I was up to my eyeballs in medical school, internships and residencies, working ungodly long hours, and trying to keep medications straight in my sleep-deprived brain so I didn't harm a patient. Tempe was taking almost a double academic load to speed up graduation, meeting herself coming and going between jobs and studying.

When we finally got to Commencement Day, we were so proud of ourselves and each other! We'd made it. I specialized further in Neuro-Surgery, which meant more study, long hours, and fellowships. Tempe went on digs all over the world in hot, dusty poverty-stricken places, making a difference academically and personally wherever she found herself. She was reserved and quiet, but has a heart of gold. She'd help the local kids after finishing her duties at a dig site.

Meanwhile, she made some astounding observations and discoveries that less-intelligent graduate students might have missed. Although Michael Stires was her supervising professor, once I'd met him, it didn't take much for me to realize that Tempe would soon surpass her teacher. The girl has the most amazing brain! Not only does she possess a genius IQ, her powers of analysis and observation are unsurpassed. I've told her for years her talents were wasted on the dead. She should have been an MD for the living.

Which brings me back to the reason for her phone call. Her associate and partner, an FBI agent was suffering from a likely brain tumor, and Tempe wanted me to handle his case. She'd noticed some alarming anomalies in his behavior and speech patterns over a period of several months. Her partner tried to dismiss her fears, but Tempe persisted. The woman can be as stubborn as a mule when she decides she's right.

In this case, it was providential for her friend that she did. (Tempe would kick my ass for referring to Providence, being the aetheist she is.) Her associate, Seeley Booth, had a brain tumor, and needed immediate surgery. As far as Dr. Temperance Brennan was concerned, no one but me was touching her friend. We hold one another in high professional regard, and I was only to happy to comply with her request that I handle Booth's surgery.

The guy must be prescient because he asked that she accompany him during the procedure. Her presence in the OR, while unusual, saved him twice; since she knew his medical history so well. He had suffered some cervical vertebral fractures from torture during captivity in Iraq while on active military duty. I had to be particularly careful stabilizing his neck as we operated to excise the tumor.

No one could have foreseen his adverse reaction to anesthesia after the surgery, which left him in a coma for several weeks. It was touch and go for awhile, and he put up with several months of rigorous physical therapy, as well as cognitive and speech drills to requalify for his FBI post. At any rate, Booth recovered completely, and has remained tumor free.

He still comes in faithfully for his yearly precautionary check-ups, and Tempe often comes with him. They are married now, and the parents of a cute little girl, with another baby on the way. My wife and I have gotten to know them as a couple, and get together whenever our busy schedules allow. Two years ago, Booth was instrumental in catching the bastard who kidnapped and murdered my neighbor's young nephew. He has more than repaid me for removing his tumor.

People like Tempe and Booth don't come along often enough, and the world is a safer place with them chasing the 'bad guys.' I have a pre-op consult in an hour, so I do need to go, but I've enjoyed our conversation, and I'll be glad to deliver a speech next month when Tempe is recognized by her peers.

It's about time someone gave her an official award. She is, after all, the best forensic anthropologist in the world. And not at all shy about telling you so. Quite an achievement for a girl who worked her way through five degrees at Northwestern.


	19. Chapter 19

The Nurse at GWU

My name is Frances. I've been around hospitals all my adult life, 19 years next month. I work at George Washington University Hospital in surgery. Today I had a patient I'll never forget.

As a nurse, I strive to take the best possible care of each patient in my charge. We in the medical field want the best for each human being we encounter. But every so often, you encounter a patient who is uniquely memorable in one way or another; particularly kind, good-looking, outgoing, grateful, irascible, depressed, worried-you get the idea.

This is especially true in surgery, because people are facing an unfamiliar experience, and worse, an unknown outcome. Even the bravest of patients are nervous, and concerned what beyond those large swinging doors, what will occur while they are asleep and unable to control their destiny for at least the immediate future.

Some surgeries are elective, expected, pre-scheduled; like a caesarian section birth or a tummy tuck. These give patients a chance to prepare themselves mentally, physically, spiritually. Other procedures are urgent, sudden, life or death matters, emergencies. These catch the patients by surprise, unprepared, like a fish gasping for air.

Each surgical procedure carries its own rewards and risks. Of these, neurosurgery is one of the most complex and unpredictable fields in medicine. Patients facing a pressing time-critical medical issue are caught the most unawares. I can't help but feel both sympathy and empathy for these individuals.

Today I had such a patient. A man in his mid-30's, handsome, muscular, articulate and strong, with the kindest brown eyes. Despite his situation, trying to crack jokes, thanking nurses for the slightest care. The kind of person you sense would normally be taking care of others, solving problems, finding answers, doing his best to bring comfort and calm.

But for him, today, the tables were turned. He was the one needing help, answers, reassurance in a situation where little could be offered. He had a brain tumor, very likely a cerebellar pilocytic astrocytoma, which was causing him to hallucinate, see people and cartoon characters with whom he conversed without realizing the implications of the experiences.

He seemed the kind of person who would ignore his own aches and pains, needs and wants to focus on the well-being of others. And yet, he needed reassurance just like the rest of us. You could tell he was nervous, worried, scared; and this was likely a _very_ unfamiliar sensation to him.

I recognized his companion, a woman he called his partner. She is a fairly well-known author, Dr. Temperance Brennan. A peek at his chart told me _why_ he was concerned about everyone but himself, what his job is: an FBI agent. His name: Seeley Joseph Booth. As we prepped him for surgery, he was still asking questions about the interrogation they'd just come from, that his partner had pulled him away from in haste, insisting he go to the hospital _NOW_.

"Trust me!" I had heard her entreat him as they rolled him down the hall for innumerable tests. As we were hooking up lines, inserting IV's, she left him to inform others in the waiting room what was transpiring, what the tests had revealed, what surgery was planned. Now that he was alone, the look on his face broke my heart.

He craned his neck, straining to see out the door, catch a glimpse of someone. Like a lost little boy, he needed someone familiar. I could tell he was worried the surgery would begin before his partner returned. When you're waiting like that, the minutes are hours.

 _Finally,_ she reappeared. His smile of relief was not the first I've seen, but certainly the widest. I stepped out of the room to get a bag of sterile saline, and watched through the glass. He was asking her something, begging her.

The pair exchanged words, and looks, and facial expressions. I could tell she was demurring, not giving in to his request. Then Dr. Jurzik came in, shook his hand, explained a few things, reassured the man. Dr. Brennan said very little, watching the exchange.

I saw Booth give her another look that said it all: _Please!_ Suddenly, Dr. Brennan's demeanor changed imperceptibly, and she walked out of the room, followed the doctor, took his arm gently, spoke to him quietly, and gradually a bit more insistently.

The surgeon shook his head, grimaced, sighed, then nodded. She looked up, and gave her partner a _look._ She had gotten permission for his request. It turns out Booth wanted her in the OR, very rare, never granted, but this time, it was.

A few minutes later, they were walking down the hall, hands gripped tightly; her in blue scrubs, him in the drafty gown. Through those wide swinging doors.

"It'll be fine," she told him.

I had overheard part of what they'd said to each other.

"I'm not a neurologist, Booth, or a surgeon," she had protested.

"But you're a genius. That's good enough for me. Plus, you'll know if they're screwing up," he had responded; firm, sure, resolute about what he needed: _HER._

I will never forget the looks they exchanged, the smile on his face when she agreed to be present, the calm reassurance she communicated without words, by squeezing his hand.

As I go home tonight, I'm glad his surgery went well, that Dr. Jurzik was able to excise the tumor successfully. As for his recovery, a few snags have arisen. It seems he's allergic to the anesthetic they used, reacted poorly, is still 'out' in recovery after longer than usual, not awakening as patients should after surgery.

When I work my next shift. I will check on this man, Booth, to see how he's doing. He is one of those patients I'll never forget.


	20. Chapter 20

A Follow-Up from Frances

It's me, again—Frances. So I'd been off a couple of days, Tuesday and Wednesday, an all-too typical hospital nurse's 'weekend.' Really nice, right? You'd think after almost 20 years of service, I'd get the _real_ weekends to spend with my hubby and kids, but this is the medical world, and everyone takes their turn with the 'sucky' schedule rotations. I scold my children for using that word, but sometimes, it really fits, you know?

So, I came in early this morning to check on the gorgeous FBI patient with the soulful Golden Retriever brown eyes like Shadow's in that "Homeward Bound" movie. Ran into my friend Margie from Recovery in the break room and she sadly confided that she'd heard from ICU that he still hasn't awakened.

Yes, I know, we're sworn to confidentiality but our concern for patients is personal, and we all know we keep what we know to ourselves. This Booth guy, especially, will stick around in my head long past retirement. The men and women of law enforcement who serve and protect to keep us all safe are significant to us medical folks, and we like to keep close tabs on their welfare.

So don't judge us; just be glad when it's your turn to be in one of these beds, that you've got the comfort of knowing how _much_ we do care.

Well, I couldn't linger with the surgical schedule as packed as it was, so I hustled back down the hall to scrub a laminectomy, praying for Agent Booth as I went. He lingered in the back of my mind until the end of my shift.

Once I'd shucked my sterile scrubs for street clothes, I took the elevator up to the Critical Care floor, delivered some lab results, and checked the roster. I would never disturb patients or their visitors, but I walked down the hall to the family lounge, and started a new pot of coffee.

Booth's partner, Dr. Brennan, came around the corner in search of caffeine, and gave me a tired smile. There were dark smudgy circles under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in a week, and she _walked worried._

"You're one of the nurses who scrubbed Booth's surgery, right?" she asked me. (The woman misses nothing.)

"Yes, m'am. I delivered some papers up here, and needed fresh coffee before I go home to my kids. If you don't mind my asking, how is he?"

"He hasn't come to, still in a coma, a strongly adverse reaction to anesthetic. Dr. Jurzik said if he ever has a surgical procedure again, it will be imperative that the anesthesiologist is fully aware of his allergic sensitivities. I'm really worried, but he _always_ comes through."

"Always? He's been hospitalized before?"

"Oh, yes, we both have been in here several times; from injuries on the job, during cases. Criminals don't worry or care who they hurt trying to escape justice, you know? I'm sorry, I shouldn't burden you with this."

"Dr. Brennan, I've read all your books, and admire your scientific work. I haven't encountered you or Agent Booth here before, but it sounds like other staff members have, taking care of you both. If I can ease your worry, talking a bit, it's my pleasure. I promise 'mum's the word' but I've been keeping Agent Booth in my prayers since Monday."

"Oh, I don't believe in that-, I'm an aetheist—but Booth does, and thank you. He is deeply religious, has strong beliefs—a lot of faith, so I'm sure it would mean a great deal to him, knowing you are 'pulling for him' as he would say."

"I've seen many patients sleep a little longer than we'd like, and wake up fine after brain surgery, Dr. Brennan. Dr. Jurzik is one of the best neurosurgeons on the East Coast, so your partner is in the best of hands. I would trust that doctor to work on any of my family," I told her.

Brennan's face brightened a little. "Oh, I know he is extremely competent; we attended Northwestern University for undergrad and graduate work. I've known him since we were both sophomores, in fact. I know his wife Helen, as well."

"We suffered through more long nights studying morphology than I care to remember, and dissected together. He was my Human Anatomy lab partner. We named our cadaver 'Mortimer' after his eccentric great uncle. Quite a character-"

She chuckled to herself, remembering; then stopped mid-sentence. "I need to get back to Booth. Thank you for your concern, and the excellent surgical care your team gave him. I could tell you all know what you're doing in there. I hope you have a good evening."

"You, too, Dr. Brennan. Take care of yourself. I don't think Agent Booth wants his partner collapsing in a bedside chair."

She squared her shoulders, and gave me a resolute look. "That won't happen, but I need to be there when he wakes up. Keep on holding good thoughts for him, will you?"

"Sure, Dr. Brennan, please keep in touch. I'm Frances Maloney; Dr. Jurzik's nurse Maggie knows my email or can contact me. I hope I see you again, but not on the surgical schedule! Maybe at your next signing, if you have one nearby."

"Thank you, Frances, very much." She picked up the white hospital mug, turned and walked back down the hall. I straightened the sugar packets, wiped up a few drips, and headed for the elevator to get home to my family. I needed a hug from Fred and my kids.


	21. Chapter 21

The Neighbor Down the Hall

Seeley Booth is the nicest next door neighbor you'll ever meet. He is considerate and concerned about an older lady's welfare. He checks on me and my daughter Elaine, who lives with me now that she finally got smart and left her rotten husband. She used get roughed up pretty regularly. Phil's not a bad guy when he's sober, but too much liquor can transform anyone into a brut.

Elaine's divorce will be final next month, and then she'll be looking for her own place. Mr. Booth's apartment might be available soon. He and his scientist lady partner, Dr. Brennan, have finally 'gotten together' for real, and admitted what everyone else already knew; that they are nuts about each other.

The two of them have been trading nights together the last several months, back and forth, between staying at her place and staying at his. I strongly suspect Dr. Brennan is in a family way. Her willowy figure has a little pooch in the middle the last few times I spoke to her in the hall. I know they are trying to keep it quiet at work, but you can't fool an old lady.

My Herman and I had a hot-blooded romance for 40 years, and I still miss him. We got married when I was 23 and he was 32, had Elaine and Freddy, and lived a good life until the asbestos from the Navy shipyards in Philly got to him. Lung cancer's a bad way to go, believe you me!

Fred works on Capitol Hill, so he talked me into moving down closer to him and Amanda and their kids. Wanted me to move out to the suburbs, but I'm much happier here in Adams Morgan; more like my old neighborhood. When Mr. Booth realized I was from Philly, he became my new best friend.

I make him "American widdout" and chocolate chip cookies when that adorable Parker spends the weekends. He makes sure my faucets don't drip, and checks my car's oil regularly. Being with the FBI, he can't always fix stuff around here, but he tells the super if he can't get to it. Fred and Mandy are good to me, but with them living a ways off, they are glad Booth is just down the hall.

When I slipped in the bathroom last winter, the walls are so thin, Seeley heard me holler for help. He has my spare key and let himself in to check on me. I was sure glad I was brushing my teeth and not in the tub! Having a good lookin' fellow like Booth see me in my birthday suit, now that would have been embarrassing!

He hides his spare key in a fake rock by the door mat. Pretty obvious ploy, if you ask me; it doesn't fool anyone. Dr. Brennan agrees with me; they bicker about that all the time- and everything else. But Herman and I squabbled too, just like Ralph Kramden and Alice. Couples do that; no big deal, didn't mean we weren't crazy in love.

If Booth does move out, I'll surely miss him, and watching Parker grow up. That little kid is a hoot, and smart as a whip!

When that blizzard hit DC a few years ago, Seeley and Dr. Brennan got stuck in the old elevator, crammed in there with some electric blue plastic seats from Eagles' Stadium. That was some afternoon. Their friend Dr. Sweets kept banging on my door. First for some warmer clothes, then he wanted a lamp, then asked for a bag of frozen peas.

The only light I could loan him was an illuminated snow-cone from my Christmas window display. Booth hurt his back trying to shove those seats through the ceiling escape hatch. Like that was gonna work!

Well, I just heard the kitchen timer go off. My apple pie crust is nearly baked, and I can't have it getting too dark on the edges. Seeley and Dr. Brennan are coming to dinner tonight with me and Elaine. I just hope my vegetarian lasagna turns out to her liking. I'm not used to cooking anything that isn't chock full of meat!


	22. Chapter 22

The Heat in the House

A/N: I'm combining Summer Day in the Life and Pop Up Challenges, because our family recently suffered the loss of our upstairs A/C, which is not something you want to experience during summer in the southern States.

Awakened by the call of nature, Booth awoke and gently slipped his arm from under his wife's upper torso. He slid out of bed, wincing at the pain in his feet, but urgently needed the bathroom. As he walked to their en-suite, he realized how hot he felt. Afever coming on? he wondered. Nope, he felt fine. Finishing his business, he reached toward the ceiling vent, checking the air flow. Ugh. Tepid.

He sighed to himself. This could only mean one thing. The air conditioning unit was malfunctioning. Great. Last night's newscast had predicted hot, muggy weather for the coming day. Opening a window wouldn't really help. He flipped the wall ceiling fan control panel to 'high' and walked out of the bedroom to check on his kids.

Hank's dark blond hair was stuck to his forehead in damp ringlets that reminded Booth of Parker at the same age. Christine had kicked off her covers completely. He turned both kids' ceiling fans to the highest settings and went on downstairs where the room temperature was mercifully cooler. Entering the downstairs hall, Booth turned down the thermostat to offset the heat upstairs.

He glanced outside and saw hints of daylight. Might as well make some coffee and wait for his morning paper to thud against the front door. 5:13 am. Overriding the coffeemaker's timer, he pulled a mug from the cabinet and waited for it to brew. He carried his first cup to the family room and flipped on the television to the Olympics recap.

Knowing his father-in-law was an early riser, Booth sent Max a text at 6:15 am. Out in Koose Bay, Oregon, the man had become an excellent electrician known as Art McGregor.

 _U up yet, Max?_

 _Booth? One of ur cases giving you insomnia?_

 _No, A/C upstairs is out. Could u come by & check it B4 I call service guy, pls?_

 _Sure thing. C U soon._

The stairs behind him creaked slightly as Brennan descended without her customary silk robe.

"Booth, why are you up so early? I felt unusually warm when I awoke, but I feel fine. It's cooler down here. . ."

"I think the A/C is out upstairs, Bones. Your dad's coming over to check it before I call in the troops," Booth replied.

"You'd call the Army to fix our cooling system? I'm not thinking straight. I don't sleep well when it's too warm."

She filled a mug with hot water from the instant tap by the sink, selected a lemongrass bergamot tea bag, slipped it in to steep, and sank beside Booth on the couch.

"Ugh, I have a budget meeting this morning to request new scientific equipment for Dr. Hodgins. He believes his mass spectrometer is outdated, and Cam isn't happy. She's already done battle with the board this month over monogrammed lab coats the new interns wanted, which was ridiculous. They accepted her request for pin-on resin nametags. But she asked me to present this latest requisition. The board won't even listen to Hodgins anymore."

A knock at the front door signaled Max's arrival, and Booth stood up to let him in.

"Morning, Booth, Tempe. So it's stuffy upstairs? I brought my tools, so lemme get busy and see if I can make you comfortable again, or if you'll need to call in the cavalry."

"Why do you and Booth keep referring to the Army repairing our cooling system, Dad?"

"Honey, it's an expression," Max chuckled.

A half-hour later, he came in from the backyard.

"My gauges show you're 2 pounds low on Freon, Booth."

"Dad, that has been banned by the government. Our system uses the newer coolant."

"I know, honey. Force of habit, I guess. I'll call Harvey and have him bring over some R-410A to recharge it. I think we can have you back in business before the kids are awake."

"Thanks, Max. I'm gonna shower down here, Bones. I can take the kids to day care if you need to make that meeting."

"It doesn't start til 8:0 am, but that would be more convenient. To the Jeffersonian board, anything before noon is early! Thanks, Dad. You're a life-saver. I'll get my clothes from upstairs while you're showering, Booth."

Booth handed Max a mug of coffee and the sugar bowl. "Bones is right, Max. You're a top-notch electrician! Thanks!"

"I do what I can, Booth, I do what I can."

Hank appeared at the top of the stairs. "Daddy, I'm hot. . . Grandpa, what'cha doin' here?"

Max grinned at his grandson. "C'mere, Tiger, and let your parents get dressed."


	23. Chapter 23

Fun with Fireflies

Two little boys darted across the lawn, playing tag as adults carried food out to the broad patio in preparation for a dinner shared by the close-knit if unorthodox family to which they belonged. More than once, the kids had been chided to get out from underfoot as they zigzagged too close, almost tripping their elders.

As Hank chased his best friend, an insect hit the four-year old in the cheek.

"Ewww! I got zapped by a bug!" he cried, not slowing down in his hurried pursuit. "Tag! You're it now, SL!"

Stopping momentarily as he felt the slap of Hank's hand on his back, Daisy Wicks' dark-haired son scowled for a moment, then took off after the younger boy who had rounded the corner of a low white picket fence.

"Hank, watch where you are running; you better not fall on top of our pets!" Christine warned her younger brother as she laid out flatware and steak knives.

Over the past eight years, an assortment of turtles, goldfish, hamsters, and frogs had been lovingly interred in the backyard by their bereaved young 'pet parents' and last Father's Day, Brennan surprised Booth with a low white picket fence she'd asked Max to build around the little cemetery.

Booth had publicly expressed his gratitude, and privately groused about having one more thing to edge around each time he mowed the yard. He also resolved to instruct his pet-loving children in the art of using an old-fashioned hand-powered grass clippers until Parker was home to handle the weed-eater.

"Chrissy, I know better than that!" Hank bellowed as he side-stepped SL's outstretched arm.

"Well-done, Bud!" his father yelled from the backyard grill where he expertly flipped succulent 6-oz. Black Angus steaks, chopped sirloin burgers, vegetable/steak kabobs, and kale-quinoa burgers. Even now, approaching his fifth decade, Booth still had the excellent night vision of a sniper.

Hank changed direction, but SL had anticipated this and was close on his heels. Raising his hand to tag his friend, SL felt two pops from bugs colliding with his path. One hit his chest, the other his forehead. Simultaneously he saw a momentary neon glow in mid-air.

"Fireflies, Hank, it's fireflies!"

"Those are _Lampyridae_ ," stated Michael Vincent knowingly, placing the two-gallon iced tea dispenser carefully next to its lemonade-filled twin at the edge of Booth's cedar/brick serving bar.

"Shhh, Michael, don't get your dad started, or we'll never get to eat," Christine muttered.

"Oh, right, sorry," the lanky nine year old responded. "He wouldn't stop expounding on their genus and species for an hour."

Did you know fireflies give off cold energy, from _luciferin_ that glows and _luciferase_ that triggers their light emission? Even their larvae and eggs sometimes flash when they sense tapping or vibrations.

Christine gave him a look, "Michael!" she hissed.

"Oh yeah," Jack Hodgins' son grinned sheepishly. "I've spent too much time around my dad, I guess."

"Are we gonna eat soon? I'm seriously starving!" SL declared. (It should be explained here that young Seeley Lance Wicks-Sweets had recently made it known he was adopting his initials as a nickname, considering how much of a mouthful his full name happened to be. Since he was starting kindergarten grade soon, the boy wanted a simpler moniker.

"Boys, please come inside and wash your hands thoroughly," Brennan requested as she stepped through the back door bearing a large bowl of fruit salad. "We want to eat before it gets darker. You can chase fireflies once you've consumed your meal. You may catch them in glass jars as long as you release them quickly afterwards."

"Seel—SL, listen to your Aunt Bones, and get in here. Once your hands are clean, please take the cloth napkins outside," Daisy Wicks called to her son. She set a tall stack of Corelle plates on the serving bar, and went back into the kitchen for tumblers and serving spoons.

Jack Hodgins carefully adjusted his crutches as he grabbed the blankets flung over his shoulder and placed them on Booth's Adirondack chairs. "You kids can spread these out on the grass and watch the stars come out after dinner," he told Michael and Christine.

The garrulous family lined up to fill their plates with their preference of burgers, salads, Amy's baked beans, Brennan's mac and cheese, and Angela's hot German potato salad (her Texas grandmother's recipe).

"We made strawberry whipped cream shortcake and iced chocolate brownies, Uncle Booth," chimed Emma and Haley.

"Ah, my Nirvana desserts!" Booth sighed happily.

"As long as you don't over-indulge," Brennan warned him.

"You too, Jack Stanley Hodgins. Gaining weight puts more stress on your elbows, shoulders, and forearms," Angela observed.

"Who sounds like a squint now?" Hodgins teased his wife.

"Alright, enough chatter. Let's get to busy-ing, as Pops used to tell Jared and me. The meat's getting cold!" Booth told the gathering. "Hank, say a quick grace, and let's dig in!"

"Booth. . . !"

"Okay, grace and a moment of silence for those who prefer that! We'll be ecumenical about it."

Christine was accustomed to navigating this perennial parental disagreement at mealtimes. "Uncle Jack," she asked with a wink at Michael Vincent, "what genus and species do fireflies belong to?"

"To which genus and species do fireflies belong, honey," Brennan corrected. Booth's mouth quirked up in a smile. His genius wife couldn't help herself.


	24. Chapter 24

From Summer School to Soccer Coach

Danny Shaw drove down the tree-lined street of well-trimmed lawns and turned into the driveway of a Dutch Colonial house he knew well. He heard resounding thumps coming from the back yard. Apparently ten-year-old Hank Booth was upset about something, kicking a soccer ball against the side of the garage as hard as he could. Danny knew physical exertion usually helped calm his own bad moods; but he sat in his truck and listened, and it didn't seem the boy felt any better. He waited a bit longer. Sure enough, Hank had heard a car pull into the driveway and soon ran around front to see who had arrived.

Danny casually unclipped his seat belt and grinned at his star player through the truck's open window.

"Hey, Hank-o. I heard your ball thumping that wall clear out here. Are you practicing your kick or are you worked up about something? That used to be my best way to let off steam when my mom grounded me from my Pokemon cards."

" _You_ got grounded?" Hank asked his Rockville High School soccer midfield idol.

"You bet! How else do you think a single mom kept a kid like me in line? Well, to tell you the truth, I also got a few lectures along the way during middle school from your dad about respecting my mother, and pulling my weight at home."

"My dad yelled at you?"

"No, Hank, Agent Booth didn't yell. He just pointed out that my mom Genny had a tough demanding job at the FBI, in addition to raising me by herself, and I needed to do my part to help her out. Which included not mouthing off, doing my chores, and keeping my grades up."

Agent Genny Shaw had been working with Booth in Major Crimes for several years, and had recently been given her own team of agents to work with. She was one of Hank's favorites among his father's co-workers, always friendly and she never talked down to him.

He listened to Danny continue. "And you know what, he was right. I wouldn't be playing varsity soccer now, if I'd kept goofing off in seventh grade. Thanks to your dad leaning on me, and my mom keeping after me to study and practice hard, I've got a good chance of earning some college scholarships."

At the age of ten, Hank had heard enough dinner table discussions about scholarships between fifteen-year-old Christine and their parents to understand the significance of Danny's hopes for his future.

His coach broke into the youngster's thoughts.

"But enough about me! What's eating you, Hank? Your practice starts in 35 minutes and you need to focus if we aim to beat Metro United on Saturday. You can't be distracted and play competitive soccer, kid."

Hank sighed. "My mom says I gotta go to summer school, Danny. For six whole boring weeks! She and my dad are worried about my English grades. I mean, my mom writes books all the time. Why can't she just help me at home?"

"Where do they want you to go?" Danny asked.

"The DC Youth Writing Consurshum. Or someplace like that," Hank complained.

"Hank, that's not plain old run of the mill summer school! That program is sponsored by your mom's museum. The Jeffersonian funds summer workshops for kids your age in science, art, and writing. It's not boring at all." 

"I went to the art program after fourth grade and the science program the summer of fifth grade. They were great. Your mom and Dr. Hodgins came several times during the science one, Ms. Montenegro-Hodgins worked with the art program."

"They were all pretty interesting. My cousin said Dr. Goodman and your mother held sessions at the writing clinic and she really liked it. You have to sign up way early to be included. They have a long waiting list of kids who want to get in," Danny told him.

"The demand is so high, they've even had to limit kids to one summer in each program. You'll enjoy it, Hank. I promise."

"Now let's get over to the practice fields so I can see your outside kick and heel kick before the other guys arrive. I need you sharp on Saturday, Hank. That Mat McEachin scored a hat trick last week against Arlington Premier."

Three hours later, at home.

Hank's cell phone buzzed as he was doing his history homework.

"Hello? Hank Booth speaking."

"Hank? How ya doing, Buddy?"

"Parker!" Hank's grin spread across his face as he heard his older brother's voice.  
"How's fourth grade at Jefferson Elementary treating you?" Parker inquired.

"Aw, okay. Mom wants me to go to summer school, and I'm bummed. My soccer coach Danny Shaw says it's different from public school; that he went, and it wasn't too bad."

"Hank, is it the Writers Consortium?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Dude, I went to that! Dr. Goodman started that. Bones was one of the presenters. It was awesome. I wrote a short story that she really liked. The next year I went to the Young Anthropologist clinic, and Bones ran the whole thing, but the writing one was fun, and my English grade went up the next year in school."

"Bones and Dad won't steer you wrong. Believe me, the Jeffersonian programs are so much better than regular public summer school classes. Now those _sucked,_ but don't tell your folks I said so. My Mom made me go one summer before Bones mentioned the Consortium. That one _was_ boring!"

"Maybe by the time I come home from tour in August; you'll have written a mystery novel. Who knows?" Parker said.

"You're coming home, Parks?"

"Yup, I've got a four-day break between engagements in Atlanta and Philadelphia, so I want to see you guys. Listen, Hank, you hang in there; you'll have a better time than you expect. Can you check if Dad can talk; and take the phone to him, please? See ya soon, Bro."

That night after Hank and Christine are asleep.

Teeth brushed, Booth exited the bathroom, pulled back the covers and slid in beside Brennan, who adjusted the pillow in her lap supporting her netbook computer to allow him more space. He turned to her with a pleased smile.

"What, Booth? You look like the Siamese feline who consumed a parakeet."

"Cat that ate the canary, Bones. I had an interesting phone conversation this afternoon. Danny Shaw called me on his way to pick up Hank for practice."

Concerned, Brennan asked, "Is Hank playing on Saturday? Parker emailed me today that he should be home Friday night, and wants to surprise his siblings. If Hank doesn't participate in his soccer match, the boys will both be quite disappointed. "

"No, no, nothing like that. Hank will play, and Parker will love it. I wish he could stay longer than 2 nights, but when he called tonight, he said he'll be back for 4 days in August. But the short visit will be worth it to the kids for the surprise."

"Parker's a wonderful older brother to make that effort on their behalf for such a short time," Brennan remarked.

"Thanks, Bones!"

"So why _did_ Danny Shaw call you?"

"Oh, yeah. He wanted to tell me he's been recommended for an ROTC athletic scholarship for U-Md-College Park, playing soccer. He actually thanked me for lecturing him back in middle school when he was driving Shaw crazy slacking off in seventh grade! Said he wished his father had been around to steer him right, but he was glad that his mom's Supervisory Agent was willing to hold his feet to the fire."

"Booth, you didn't -ah, it's an expression."

"I told Shaw, Genny, and she got all teary-eyed. She's raised a really good son, Bones. And he's been a wonderful coach for our Hank. Danny apparently told Hank that your idea of summer school wasn't a drag, that the young writers' clinic would be as great as that summer anthropology camp you got Danny into. He's taught our son more than soccer moves, mostly by example."

Brennan leaned up and kissed him, tears standing in her eyes. "Yes, and Shaw did it mostly by herself. You helped occasionally, but she has always been a single parent. You were so right. Booth, when you told me you _had_ to be involved in your child's life if you were the father. I'm so glad I didn't go through with that. I can't say I'm glad you had a brain tumor, but it stopped me from making a bad decision. I realized standing in that OR during your surgery, how tenuous life is, and how much you meant to me, how wonderful you'd be as a father, if we ever did have a child together, through a direct deposit, as Angela said."

Booth cringed. _"She said that?"_

"You are _still such_ a prude, Booth!" Then she kissed him again.


	25. Chapter 25

Bookstore Reunion

This character is so minor that many viewers might not have even noticed here. I can't recall in which episode she was mentioned by Booth, only that he and she were under the bleachers together.

Today could have been a perfectly normal Saturday, which included a trip to my favorite bookstore. Except for my reason for going there. I don't normally indulge in fan adulation. I'm a professional woman, for heaven's sake, with my CPA. I'm a partner in a mid-size Delaware accounting practice.

Wilmington is about 45 minutes from Philly where I grew up. I love the precision and predictability of accounting theory, a carryover, I suppose from my school days when I always beat the boys in my class at math.

I also love science and well-written books, especially mystery, suspense, and crime novels. I've been reading Dr. Temperance Brennan's books since the first one was published in 2003. My husband bought Bred in the Bone for my birthday, and I was hooked by page 62. Her characters were genuine and her science was exact.

Since then, I've bought every one of her crime novels the day each came out. Just like I have every Harry Potter book since Chamber of Secrets. Never mind that I was 28 years old and the mother of a pre-schooler. I'd dress Marissa up as various characters, and off we'd go to each midnight publication party, summer after summer.

It worked out well because John was gone then for two weeks of annual training summer with the Delaware National Guard. He flies Blackhawk helicopters and was stationed in Bosnia and Iraq. We met at Rutgers, married senior year, and had Marissa by the time he finished pharmacy school.

That was not an easy time with me taking CPA prep courses. We were meeting each other coming and going. But John's military pay has made paying off our student loans and buying a house much easier, so we deal with the hectic pace of our lives. Wilmington is a nice place to live and work, and without long commutes we've had plenty of time to spend with our daughter.

From my reading J.K. Rowling's books to her, Marisa is as much a bookworm as her mom. I haven't let her read Temperance Brennan's books just yet, due to parts like page 187. But we've been to so many Harry Potter events together, that when she begged to come to this book signing, I couldn't say no.

We got in line at the Ninth Street Book Shop by 7:30 am, well toward the front of the crowd waiting to meet Dr. Brennan. Armed with my Starbucks black coffee and her double chocolate chip frappuccino we chatted with the people around us, comparing notes on our favorite parts of the book.

The doors opened at 10 and we walked in, eager to encounter Temperance Brennan for a few moments. The line moved slowly, as she took time to speak to each person as she signed their book. Marisa and I were probably 25 spots back when I spotted a familiar face. Dark hair, strong cheekbones, firm muscular build.

This I hadn't anticipated. Seeley Booth is here? In Delaware at a book signing. He hadn't changed much, and I smiled to myself, remembering a year of very pleasant dates, and more evening encounters under the bleachers of our high school stadium than I'd _ever_ admit to Marisa (or John.)

I wondered if he would recognize me, and decided to see what transpired when we reached the front of the line. As we awaited our turn, I watched the two of them, and decided they might be a couple. He stood casually behind her chair, but his eyes constantly scanned the crowd.

I remembered then, hearing that Seeley had joined the Army after a shoulder injury ended his basketball scholarship at Penn. He seemed as sharply aware of surroundings and watchful in crowds as my John is. He's protective of her, I thought. They must be together, or else _very_ close friends.

You see, my dad was a cop and he taught me to observe people. Now that I think of it, so was Seeley and Jared's grandfather. I'd forgotten how nice he and their Grams were to us, friends of their grandsons. And, boy could that lady bake pies! Hmmm, just a few customers more to go. . .

"Marianne Marano?" Seeley Booth's handsome face split into a broad grin I remembered very well, and stepped out from behind the small table to grasp my hand.

"It's Mahaney now. What a surprise when I saw you up here; haven't changed much, Seeley. This is my daughter, Marissa. I love Dr. Brennan's books, but I never expected to see you here too."

"Bones, this is a friend of mine from high school! "

Dr. Brennan shook my hand warmly, and smiled at my daughter. She reached for the open book I placed in front of her, and inscribed a lovely precise signature. Meanwhile, Seeley told her we'd gone through St. Joseph's in the same class, that we'd met when he came to live with Pops in 8th grade.

I remarked that there wasn't a girl at that school who didn't take note of Seeley Booth's arrival that fall or his already considerable athletic prowess; and teased that I'd helped him make it through Algebra II. This occurred more because of his sports practices and working part-time than lack of brains. He blushed, and Dr. Brennan smirked slightly.

"Booth has a well-proportioned physique and a pleasing visage. I'd imagine he attracted considerable attention from the adolescent females in your school."

My daughter looked at me in surprise. I knew she was thinking Dr. Brennan sounded as though she'd burped up a dictionary. Booth grinned at her.

"Bones always likes to use the longest words she can come up with!" he chuckled.

"You call her _Bones_?" Marisa asked, puzzled.

"She's a forensic anthropologist; she works with bones all day long," he explained. "She's my partner."

"You're a scientist, Seels?" I wondered.

"Nope, I'm with the FBI. Dr. Brennan is a forensic consultant for us on tough cases," he hesitated, glancing at me; obviously choosing his words carefully in consideration of my daughter's youth. As thoughtful as ever.

"Where do you live now?" he asked.

"Here in Wilmington, I'm a CPA, met my husband John at Rutgers. He's a pharmacist at Nemours- duPont Children's Hospital."

"Dad is at annual drill. He flies Iroquois and Blackhawks for the Delaware National Guard," Marissa added proudly.

A loud cough interrupted our conversation. The customers behind us had been patient with our impromptu reunion, but they were growing restless; understandably so.

"We need to let you back to your signings. It was good to meet you, Dr. Brennan. You've got yourself an excellent partner in Seeley, but I'm sure you already know that," I said to the stunning woman called 'Bones'.

She smiled at me, "Oh, I know it. I've never believed in Fate, but I _am_ very lucky."

"Wow, Marianne, who'd have thought! Here's my card. Pops still lives in Philly. Maybe we can all go for dinner down there sometime. I'd like to meet John and shake his hand. Army helicopter jocks saved my bacon more than once."

"Take care of yourself, Seeley, and your 'Bones'."

As we walked away, Marissa turned to me, "When we tell Dad about this, he's for sure gonna freak, Mom!"


	26. Chapter 26

A Lady in Waiting

I have been waiting for Hank Booth for quite a while now, and he's finally almost here. I wasn't in any hurry for him to arrive; preferring to let him take his time, enjoying his weekly trips to that little fishing pond with Fred Hawkins, his afternoon chess, dominoes or checkers games with Bill Minor and Sam Fletcher, and of course his crocheting sessions with the ladies at Willow River Retirement Center.

Marjorie Collins and Alice Beasley are attractive women, and I certainly understand that men will be men, no matter their age. Regardless what age Hank or any other guy attains, they don't feel any different inside their heads than that young fellow who courted a pretty girl, went off to war, defended their country, and came home to start really living again.

Every generation thinks they are special, but those of us who lived through the Great Depression and World War II, we know we are! We had to grow up fast in order to help our folks put food on the table by doing odd jobs. We had to mature very quickly to face the threats of offshore German subs and food rationing.

Some of us marched off to fight for freedom, and others stayed home to miss them and hold down the status quo. We had to get real serious real quick, but we also knew how to live well. Dancing to "Begin the Beguine," "We'll Meet Again," or "Sentimental Journey" with your best girl in your arms; now that was living.

How do I know all this? Because I was that girl. Hank Booth's best girl Margaret. I'm the one he gave that ring to. The one inscribed "Forever Starts Today, March 15, 1941."

I'm the one who made fried chicken most Sundays after church, and tuna casserole for Friday dinners, and filet of sole during Lent. I'm the one whose light flaky pie crusts, tart cherry and spicy apple fillings were sought after when St. Joseph's bingo suppers came around.

When our grandsons came to stay with us, the older one developed a love of fruit pies that continues today. That boy can't ever get enough pie. Jared, now he's another story. You want him to mow the lawn without complaint? Have some chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven waiting on the kitchen table with a tall glass of cold milk when he walks in from school.

Hank thought those boys behaved pretty well, and they did most of the time. But you can bet Grams' treats were very useful bribes to coax cooperation when they started to stray a bit. A newly baked brownie was more effective sometimes than fussing or delivering a lecture.

So I've been lazing around, under my half of this granite marker for the last 27 years. I'm telling you breast cancer is an awful way to go, my worst enemy, because I wasn't there to tell my grandsons Godspeed and hug them close when they joined the military.

Lord knows where all Seeley's been in the service of his country. (Well, actually I do too, but I can't let on.) Jared sailed all over kingdom come handling computers and security on so many ships I've lost count.

I had to stand by and watch when Hank gave Seeley my ring for that wonderful girl he finally got together with. And that little girl they gave us? Christine is quite the apple of my eye, though she's never seen me. Sharp as a tack, just like her daddy. Kind-hearted and sweet like her momma Temperance. I really didn't care if those two tied the knot, but I have to admit Angela gave them the most beautiful wedding I think I've ever seen.

Hank's not gonna meet his little namesake in person just yet. The kids told him a few months ago that their baby boy was on the way. Tempe let him feel the little fists and heels wiggling and thumping around. The two of us will enjoy watching the second Hank Booth grow up tall and strong.

A few years ago, Hank came to talk to me one day. He was way down in the dumps. Joe's drinking finally did himself in. Our son had been off on his own for the longest time, ever since Hank read him the riot act about how horridly he was treating his boys.

My husband had borrowed Joe's electric drill and drove out to return it. He climbed the porch steps and heard yelling and crying. Looked through the window and nearly threw up at what he saw. Joe whaling the daylights out of Seeley with a belt, banging his head against the kitchen table. We didn't have cell phones back then, so Hank didn't stop to call me.

He kicked Joe out for good, told him to get lost. Liked to broke his heart, but he did it. No son of ours will act that way! Hank gathered those two little boys' pajamas, toothbrushes and a few clothes, stuffed them into a bag, loaded those kids into our Chevrolet, and headed for home.

You could've knocked me over with a feather when they showed up, but I didn't let on. Just fed the two of them some grilled cheese sandwiches and put them to bed upstairs. Once Hank told me what happened, I took some aspirin and water up to Seeley. The poor kid tried to act normal, like he was already asleep.

I just wrapped him in my arms, and held him a while. I didn't say anything and neither did he. Jared was out like a light. Never knew a thing. Next morning Hank and I turned back into parents and started all over again bringing up those boys.

Sometimes lately when he can't sleep at night, Hank has talked to me for hours. A one-sided conversation you'd think, but he knows what I'd say. He's left a letter for the boys about Joe. When they bring Hank out here, Joe will come too.

They will put him between us, so we can keep an eye on our scoundrel of a son. You never stop loving your children, but you sure wonder where you went wrong. Nobody raises their son to act the way he did. I know he tried to make his peace once he finally got sober, but his sons didn't listen and why would they after all his meaness?

I see the Cadillac coming down the narrow road that leads up here. Hank always did want to buy a Cadillac. Never could afford one, but today he's finally getting to ride in one. Once the priest has said his piece, and the digging and planting are done, the two of us, Hank and I, will have a good long talk. And for once, we'll have all the time in the world.


	27. Chapter 27

A Trip in a Dinner Roll

Booth and Brennan had discussed for weeks whether or not to say yes.

Marianne and Reggie had finally retired from the musical performance circuit, and the footloose pair were trying to decide how and where to spend their leisure years. Purchase a duplex to generate some income? Or choose a more flexible option?

Reggie's kids were advocating for a 'tiny house' and Marianne Booth had certainly learned an economy of possessions after leaving Joe's mistreatment. But after years of moving from one hotel to another, both performers were tired of living out of their suitcases. Not wanting to rush their decision, the couple mulled over their choices.

Reggie had a network of friends across the Northeast, and one of them suggested a unique opportunity. The man owned an Airstream RV travel trailer dealership, and having a used 16' Bambi to sell for $35,000; he offered his personal Bambi for a weekend road trip to let Reggie and Marianne try the camper on for size.

Knowing that the trailer slept four, Reggie had an idea and called Booth at his office one morning in early May. He explained the trip they were planning and wondered if Christine and Hank could come along. He thought the siblings, now twelve and eight, might enjoy the experience, but wanted their parents to have plenty of time to consider his proposal.

"I haven't even mentioned this to Marianne yet. I know she'd love a weekend with your kids, but I don't want to raise her hopes if you think Temperance wouldn't approve my idea," he told Booth.

Touched by the man's thoughtfulness, Booth thanked Reggie for his considerate phone call.

"You are a very perceptive guy. Bones is very cautious about what we allow our children to do. With our jobs in law enforcement, we have to be aware of hazards and threats to our family. It means a lot to me that you'd give us a chance to talk about this before you mentioned it to the kids."

"I wish we had room to take Parker, but the Bambi only sleeps four. He does have a Saturday afternoon concert in Atlantic City, so we might be able to see him that night. Why don't you and Temperance think it over and let us know. School gets out around June 15th, so we could go a couple weeks later.

"I thought we could take them to the boardwalk, spend a day at the beach, go to Ripley's Museum, meet up with Parker, then drive to Hershey PA and tour the chocolate factory. We can go for two or three days, which ever suits you better. I don't want to rush the trip, or wear them out either. What do you think?"

"Reggie, it's a great idea. Lemme run it past Bones, and I'll call you next week. Probably wise not to mention it to Mom just yet. She'd be sorely disappointed if it doesn't' work out. Thanks so much for checking with us first. Can I call you Friday morning?"

"Sure, Booth, let me know Temperance's initial reaction, and if you're in favor of it, we can work out the details. Talk to you then."

After four evenings of quietly discussing it once Hank and Christine were in bed, Brennan turned in Booth's arms and nodded.

"I think we should allow them to go. Reggie has taken good care of your mom, and I believe we can trust him with our children, Booth. It makes me slightly uneasy to have them gone, but I feel that way no matter where they go, unless they're with you. But then I worry about all three of you. Meeting Parker would be a wonderful surprise and I think they'll both enjoy seeing Chocolate Town. My parents took Russ and me there when I was ten; even let me ice skate in their arena in mid-summer. It was a fascinating experience to see how chocolate is formulated. 'Yummy science' my dad called it."

The following Friday morning, Booth placed the call that he knew would delight Reggie and thrill his mother. There was still a small niggling sadness that Marianne Booth had never returned to take Jared and him away from the misery they called Dad, but he knew he wasn't perfect either, and strove to look past her shortcomings. Booth invited them to dinner Saturday night to share his Italian pasta and Bones' macaroni and cheese.

Reggie and Marianne had arrived with a tightly-zipped duffle bag. The ever-curious Hank plied them with Twenty Questions x 20 before they ever sat down to eat. Finally Booth put his foot down.

"Buddy, let your grandparents eat. If you don't finish your food, you'll never know what they've brought."

The after-dinner announcement was carefully explained before any presentations took place. Then Reggie pulled out ball caps, face and body sunscreen, and small wire-bound notebooks for Hank and Christine.

"You can wear one, apply one, and write in the last," he explained. "Keeping a journal will let you remember what we saw, what we experienced, what we shared, and become a nice keepsake. My diaries like this from childhood trips have given me lots of song-writing inspiration for our shows."

Brennan smiled at him. "An excellent idea that my dad likewise passed on to me. My journals come in handy with ideas for my books, as well as a record of my digs."

Once reassured they could face-time with their parents whenever they wished, the kids were delighted. "Chocolate, Parker, and the beach, what could be better?" Hank declared.

"Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum will be best, silly," Christine corrected him. "but it _all_ sounds like fun. The ocean is amazing. And if seeing Parker works out, that would be so cool. He hasn't been home in six months. I've missed him so much."

Hank echoed her sentiments. "Phone calls with Parker just aren't as great as him here, even on Skype."

Of course, after assenting to the trip, Brennan second-guessed their decision. Booth reminded her of the kids' thorough preparations for their adventure. Hank had stuffed his Ninja Turtle beach towel and swim shoes into his Batman backpack. Christine's middle school swim practices had worn out her Frozen beach towel and she'd chosen a new red/navy striped one for the trip.

She and her mom had yet to purchase her swimsuit, but Christine was relieved that her dad didn't come along to shop. Knowing how Booth would react to the curves of a budding figure, Brennan had firmly refused his offer to accompany them.

Booth, on the other hand, had to stop his wife's constant lectures on the health benefits of copiously-applied sunscreen. Since the kids had inherited her fair skin, Brennan assiduously monitored them for indications of sunburn whenever the family ventured outside.

As the month progressed, Booth decided to surprise Brennan with a jaunt of their own to New York. Consulting the internet for more information, Hank was fascinated with the shiny aluminum trailer that would be their temporary home, and asked his parents how it could be so compact yet complete.

"They're very well designed, carefully thought-out to maximize space utilization," Brennan answered.

"You'll be surprised," promised his father.

"I think it resembles a rolling silver dinner roll," contributed Christine.

"I don't think school is _ever_ gonna end so our trip can happen!" Hank moaned dramatically.

Marianne and Reggie arrived Thursday morning in a

The afternoon before their trip, Reggie's friend brought his Airstream Bambi down to Rockville, and showed the two couples its finer points and techniques for operation. Explaining that he preferred trucks with plenty of power safely to tow the Bambi, the man took Reggie out along less-traveled roads to become familiar with maneuvering it behind his Toyota Tacoma, and Booth came along for the ride. He was as taken with this compact little trailer as his son had been. After taking turns driving it, both men were as enthusiastic as its owner.

"Harold, I can't thank you enough for letting us try this out. This weekend should tell whether buying an Airstream is the right move for Marianne and me."

The RV dealer chuckled. "It's the least I can do after you got my boys started with their musical instrument delivery and concert touring service."

"Ah, that reminds me, Harold, Booth here has an older son Parker who is an accomplished jazz and rock guitarist and singer," Reggie told his friend.

"Marianne's grandson is Parker Booth? And you are his father? This is an honor! You have a very talented artist in your family, Mr. Booth," Harold enthused, shaking Booth's hand.

"Mom can sing, and so can Parker, but the musical gene skipped a generation with me. But thanks for the compliment. I'm proud to be his dad; he's also a wonderful son," Booth acknowledged.

Well, let's get started back. I've got an airport taxi scheduled early this evening. Please tell your wife I appreciate the offer of dinner, and regret having to decline but I thoroughly enjoyed the macaroni and cheese snack she served me. Best I ever ate!" Harold declared.

Once the last sock and boxer had been stuffed into Hank's duffel bag, and Christine had substituted her gray denim shorts for the newer darkest blue ones which rubbed off on other clothes, Booth and Brennan began the struggle to settle their over-excited kids into bed for the night. All too soon, 'Secret Agent Man' sounded from Booth's cell phone, and departure day had begun.


	28. Chapter 28

Off to the Boardwalk

Unable to sleep, Brennan remembered earlier that week. Hank and Christine had each burst out of the doors of their respective schools as the last bell rang on June 14th. They spent the ride with Angela back to the Jeffersonian Day Care discussing summer plans with Michael Vincent. To celebrate their excellent report cards, she'd pulled into Braum's and treated the chattering trio to ice cream cones.

Aware of their upcoming trip, Angela had quizzed the Booth kids, "Exactly when are you leaving for Atlantic City and Hershey?"

"5 am Friday morning!" Hank had exclaimed.

Eyeing him skeptically, Christine disagreed. "I don't think Granma Marianne and Reggie will be up quite that early."

Their parents had been glad for the intervening two days. Seeing the contents of Christine's closet strewn all over her room, Brennan had silenced Booth's demands that she clean up the mess.

"Before she leaves, we're sorting the garments she's outgrown."

Hank, in contrast, had packed quickly and decisively like his father. Undies, socks, t-shirt and shorts for each day, toothbrush, comb, pajamas and bedraggled beloved Buster Bear—he was done.

Max had come over for dinner with Reggie and Marianne, and shared his suggestions for scenic spots to check out as they drove to Hershey. Hugging his grandchildren, he'd given them each a waist pack to hold money and phones. Inside they'd found a crisp $10 bill and chorused "Thanks, Granpa Max!"

At 4 am, Booth awoke to someone tapping him on the shoulder. "Dad, it's time to get up or we'll be late pushing off!" Hank whispered loudly.

"Go back to bed until 5, little man. Everything is packed. You just need to throw on your clothes, and get Reggie some coffee," Booth admonished his son.

"Dad, I got dressed last night!"

"Henry Booth, go back to bed! Read a book if you have to!" Booth punched his pillow and rolled over.

Two hours later, everyone was on the driveway; kids and grandparents in the truck, Booth and Brennan leaning in for last hugs. The travelers backed out amid waves, blown kisses, and good-byes.

"We'll call or text you when we arrive," Marianne promised her son.

"Or sooner if you run into trouble," Booth replied.

"Don't worry, we've got both AAA and USAA Roadside Assistance, Seeley," Reggie assured him.

"Drive safely, be careful, have fun," Brennan called after them.

Bbbbbbbbbbb

After an uneventful drive, Reggie pulled into Atlantic Blueberry RV Park in Port Republic, NJ and plugged in the Airstream's water and electricity connections. They tried out the compact eating area for a quick hot dog dinner, then drove the truck to Atlantic City for an evening on the boardwalk.

They spent the next morning at the beach, slathered in sunscreen, but early enough to avoid any real chance of sunburn. Marianne had packed a ham sandwich picnic lunch with slices of Grams' recipe apple pie.

"I don't know how Great-Grams crammed so many sliced apples into her pies," Christine sighed happily.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Chrissy," Hank chided.

You're on vacation, kiddo, I think you can relax your table manners a bit," Reggie told him.

They spent the afternoon exploring the oddities of Ripley's Museum and other sights unique to Atlantic City. At 3 pm, they entered the Boardwalk Theater, slid into comfortable front row seats, and watched as Parker and his band warmed up. Their tall older brother jumped off the stage, shook hands with Reggie, hugged Marianne, swung Hank around, and embraced Christine.

"I've made reservations at Carmine's for after the show. Their servings are huge, so you'll have left-overs for tomorrow, even after you're stuffed tonight," he told them. "I should be done here around 7 pm. Come backstage when the show ends and I'll introduce you around."

The music was great, and Marianne watched her eldest grandson with quiet pride and silent remorse that she hadn't returned earlier to know him better at a younger age. Parker gave his fans an excellent show, and finished with a melody she recognized as tears filled her eyes.

"This song is one my Granma wrote years ago, and since she's in the audience, I'm playing it in her honor," Parker told the crowd. "She used to write advertising jingles when my dad was little."

Reggie and Marianne were already holding hands, but they both squeezed tighter. Once they'd teamed up to form an act, the song had been one of their first musical collaborations, and a favorite frequently requested by their fans.

Marianne leaned over to whisper to Christine, "I sang that to your dad as we danced with his green Philly Phanatic stuffed animal I brought you the first time I came to your house."

"I still have him, Granma Marianne. I wouldn't give Phil away for anything," Christine replied.

Seven hours later, after a deliciously satisfying Italian dinner of lasagna, antipasto salad, and enough warm breadsticks to build a fort, Parker loaded their left-overs containers into the truck, hugged them all goodbye, and kissed the tops of his siblings' heads.

"You guys behave and have fun. I'll be home in mid-August for nearly a week, and we'll have plenty of time to hang out then. I wish this visit had been longer, but I'm so glad Reggie thought to call me and coordinate this." He smiled at Marianne's husband and shook his hand.

"I'm glad Granma has a kind man to cherish her," he said quietly.

"Believe me, she's worth it, deserves all the pampering I can give her. I'm sorry she didn't come back for your dad and his brother, but that's all in the . She's everything to me," the older man responded.

"Parker, take care of yourself. When we settle down, wherever that is, maybe you can come visit us once in a while," Marianne told him. "You remind me so much of your dad, except for your singing talent," she said with a grin.

"Dad tries, but the family objects," Parker laughed. "I've gotta get back to my crew. You guys be safe. It's been great to see you."

Bbbbbbbbbbbb

Sleep came quickly to all four of the travelers. Early the next morning after a quick breakfast of orange juice and cinnamon sticky buns, they headed west and arrived in Hershey by 10 a.m. Once settled in Hersheypark Camping Resort, they took a chocolate factory tour, and went on the Hershey Trolley Tour. The conductor assumed many roles and gave an entertaining overview of Milton Hershey's life, and the town's history.

For lunch they enjoyed their Atlantic City left-overs from Carmine's. Hank chose the Soda Jerk Diner and Dairy Bar for dessert, then they drove to Hershey's Ice Palace, rented skates, and the siblings chased each other around the spacious rink as Reggie and Marianne sat in the bleachers and watched.

"This was a wonderful idea, Reg," Marianne said. "The kids really seem to be enjoying themselves."

"We can let them swim at Hersheypark after supper. You brought the fixings for your spaghetti Bolognese that I love, right? Is that easy to prepare on such a small cooktop?" he asked her.

"Yes, Temperance browned the meat and froze it for us, while Seeley and I cooked a batch of the sauce, so it will be quick," his wife responded, leaning against his chest. He kissed the top of her head as they watched the antics of Hank and Christine.

"Both those kids skate really well," he remarked.

"I gather their dad is the mainstay of his amateur ice hockey team. I guess it comes naturally," Marianne answered.

The kids' frosty skating session and swimming at the campground tired them out, and they retired early. "I love these bunk beds, Granpa Reggie. This camper is great," Hank enthused sleepily.

Sunday morning after Mass at historic St. Joan of Arc Church, Marianne bought two dozen petits pains au chocolat to take back to DC. They took a drive through the grounds of Milton Hershey's large home and the school he established, stopping at the mansion gift shop where the kids chose practical souvenirs for their parents, different key rings for Booth and Brennan. His included a small flashlight, hers featured a small pen.

Back on the road, the traveler sampled the chocolate pastries as they drove. Before long, Hank and Christine were leaned against one another, asleep in the back seat. When Reggie pulled into the Mighty Hut's driveway at 4 p.m. the kids were still out.

"You must have partied hard," Booth joked as he jostled Hank's shoulder. "Wake up, Bud, you're home. Chrissy, you're back, Princess, open those blue eyes I love."

The kids stumbled out of the truck, dragging their bags, and slumped on the couch.

"We had a great time, but we're beat," said Christine. "Thanks for the trip, Reggie, and Granma Marianne. I'm gonna go take a nap."

Hank was more alert and gave his parents the key rings before hugging his grandmother and Reggie. "I'm gonna go play video games upstairs. Thanks for all the fun. Maybe you can come back when Parker's here," he suggested.

"So what did you think of the Airstream Bambi?" Booth asked Reggie as they prepared to return to Harold's RV Center in Fredericksburg.

"It was pleasant, but a little cramped to live in year-round, I think." he answered. "We're going to explore more options before we decide. I appreciate Harold's generosity. Spending a weekend in one of these is much different than seeing it on a dealership parking lot."

Marianne gave Brennan a long, gentle embrace. "Thank you for letting my grandchildren come. I made memories I'll never forget. I just wish I'd come back to Seeley and Jared years earlier. You don't know how much," she said softly.

"I'm glad you are back in their lives now," Brennan answered with a smile.

"Bye, Son, thanks for sharing your wonderful kids," Marianne told her son. "I regret not coming back when you were their age."

"I know, Mom, I know," Booth replied, giving her a hug. "We just have to relish the time we have now. I'll let you know when Parker's plans are firm, so you can see him again."

He shook Reggie's hand warmly. "Thanks for taking care of my mom."

"She's worth every bit of it. I know she regrets the past, but no one can change that. I'm glad we have now," Reggie replied. "You've got great kids, Booth. We really enjoyed them."

After they drove off, Booth and Brennan went back in the house.

"That was a worthwhile weekend, don't you think?" he asked her.

"Oh, yes, Booth. Reggie, Marianne, and the kids enjoyed themselves, and I enjoyed New York with you— _very much!_ Now let's go try out those petits pains au chocolat and then hide them from Hank and Christine!"


	29. Chapter 29

An Option in Ohio

 **A/N: Having spent a very tiring day cleaning out the home, belongings, earthly possessions, and keepsakes acquired by a beloved matriarch during 9.45 decades of living, I came home, half-filled our tub with the hottest water I could tolerate and sank my loudly complaining pedes, glutei maximi, scapulae, and acromia into the aqua** **calida** **and** **while thinking I had no energy to write anything, was nevertheless struck by an idea for a story, which tails onto Heaven Can Wait. Actually it assumes her story turns out well for Ruth, and that she and Max get back together. So please wildly assume this is true with me, and read along. Now if only I had a beer hat, I'd sleep like a baby! I also borrowed Ruth's Florida relatives from KEScrubbed.**

Once Ruth's story had been completely revealed, and her evil pursuer had been brought to justice, Max gently nudged his children toward accepting and forgiving their mother as they had done for him. This didn't happen without some fits and starts, but Brennan remembered vividly the dream she had experienced after being shot with Dr. Batuhan's cruelly unique frozen blood bullet.

She recalled with complete clarity her mother remarking "You're still the most stubborn girl on God's green Earth," and had to admit to herself that it was quite true. She was very, very stubborn!

But she had also been "loved, cherished in this world" by her parents as her mom stated in that belatedly-delivered video which had nearly broken her heart when she finally watched it. These memories, and her father's urgent requests that she give her mom the second chance she'd given him, finally brought her to reconcile with Ruth.

At first Max and Ruth had taken up housekeeping together again in a small apartment in D.C. But after two years, they decided to take an extended trip together and reconnect with Ruth's sisters in Florida. This was, at least, what they told Russ and Tempe. Max had a few other ideas up his sleeve but wasn't revealing anything until he was sure he could pull off what he hoped to accomplish.

From time to time since re-entering his children's lives, Max had gone back to Ohio. He'd attended several class reunions of the youngsters he had mentored as their high school science teacher, and drove around the small town where they'd existed peacefully until McVicar forever disrupted their Christmas shopping and their lives. He had passed their neighborhood, and on a whim, pulled into a driveway, reversed direction and gone back by the only home he and Ruth had owned. The small house was still in decent condition and his mind had been flooded with memories.

Once he and Ruth had shocked the hell out of her sisters, and weathered their frustrated affections and numerous questions, the couple had reconnected with cousins, nieces, nephews and Mema, the mother Ruth never thought she'd see again. The vigorous old lady had cooked up a storm and put 6 pounds on each of them with her delicious dinners. Max made sure to have Mema write down _her_ macaroni and cheese recipe for Temperance, and promised to bring their children's families to visit.

After two weeks, they repacked their car and started off again, but rather than taking I-95, Max turned northwest on I-75. Ruth was sure he had missed a turn, but he looked over at his wife, smiled tenderly and said, Hey, Miss Ruthie, have I ever steered you wrong? Just wait and see where we're heading! I've got something to show you."

Some 15 hours later, they pulled into a familiar suburb of Columbus, and Ruth's eyes grew wider the farther they went. Max turned down a street she had travelled dozens of times and stopped in front of the place they'd once called home. A tear ran down her cheek, but she said nothing. He reached for her hand, and touched her face.

"I came out to a class reunion here and bumped into Al Hankins, the chemistry teacher. Remember him? He and I went through hell with those kids, as I 'm sure you remember, and we had breakfast the morning I returned to D.C. Apparently the kids liked my classes, and a few more have asked me back for their reunions.

"Each time I've connected with Al, and finally told him our real story. His eldest sister bought this little house six years after we left, and has lived there ever since. She and her husband are getting up in years and want to move to a senior living center sometime soon while they can still enjoy the leisure of no yard to keep mowed.

"So they're looking to sell this home, and Al called me last month, wondering if I'd be interested in re-purchasing it. What do you think, Ruthie? It might be a nice way to provide some closure for Russ and Tempe."

Ruth Keenan looked at her husband and blinked. Like an owl. She was utterly speechless at Max's resourcefulness. He never stopped amazing her. She thought for a while, and then spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. What he was proposing was incredibly sweet, but it carried some risks.

She didn't want to squelch his giving spirit, but Max had always been somewhat more impulsive than she was. Their daughter did not come by her rational deliberate nature without cause. Temperance had inherited her mother's cautious nature and analytical mind. Ruth had not wanted to run off and leave their children behind, but she feared for their safety.

And for that reason, against every desire of her heart, Ruth had urged Max toward the painful course of action that tore their family apart. She knew that their daughter disliked surprises, and this home purchase would be just that. She knew they both needed to think carefully before rekindling tumultuous memories for her and Russ.

"Honey, it's a wonderful idea. I don't want to dissuade you, but your daughter is not fond of surprises. Even good ones. Should we run this past the kids, though, before we leap? Returning here might evoke joy for them, or maybe not. Can we make a decision of this magnitude on our own, or should we let them have a say as well?"

Max was silent for a moment, then looked at her seriously. "As much as I hope it would delight them both, I believe you are correct. We wouldn't need to bring them out here, but I think we should call and explain, allow them time to think it over, and hear their reactions. You are quite right, surprises are not Tempe's cup of tea. Let's find a motel, check in and call Russ first. I daresay he can predict Tempe's reaction better than we ever could." react.


	30. Chapter 30

Shopping with Sons

As I rang up Mrs. Hampton's purchase of a $185 Miracle Slim navy blue/teal/turquoise ruched-front one piece swimsuit, I wondered how long its spandex would weather the heavy chorine dose of her daily YMCA Aqua Tabata exercise regime.

This fitness-minded lady had been coming to our store faithfully for years. She'd tried just about every brand of swimwear on the market, but couldn't buy the more durable competition suits, since they offer no support for a curvaceous feminine figure. Each time the Olympics happen, I marvel at the willowy girls winning medals. They are all muscle and no bust!

The bell alerting us to new customers chimed as two men entered with two little boys in tow. Both men had admirable physiques; one tall and dark-headed, the other shorter with curly blond hair. The youngsters with them had to be their sons, as the children's features matched the adults perfectly. While enjoying the 'scenery' they offered, I chuckled to myself at their conversation.

Apparently two wise mothers had delegated the task of procuring swimwear for their male offspring to the fathers of this pair of tots. These guys had no idea what they were in for.

"Hank, don't touch the fishing hats. You already have two! We're here to find you some new swim trunks."

"Put those sunglasses back, Michael Vincent! You can window shop and examine merchandise with your mother."

"But, Dad, they're Oakley's—"

"Right, and you are too young for that pricey brand. You've lost two pairs since school let out! Angie would kill me if I bought you those!"

"Here we are; just what we need! A helpful, knowledgeable sales lady who knows her stock and what styles fit young athletes-in-training!" Booth declared.

 _This man is good! I bet he's a real charmer, and kind of a flirt. Love that smile; worth a million dollars. I bet he melted plenty of hearts in high school. Heck, he's charmed me in 5 seconds._ I thought to myself, stifling a smirk.

"Good morning. I hope you can help us, m'am. Our boys here are on a summer swim team at Rock Creek Park Rec Center. Their teams just compete against each other for fun, but we need some suits that won't slide off when they dive in," Booth added with a grin.

"So boys, what are your favorite colors or characters?" I judged these kids to be seven or eight years old, just the age to be fans of Batman or some other super hero.

"I want a suit with entomologically-correct insects, like Daddy has at work!" announced the blond boy.

His father turned slightly red, and looked apologetic. "I work at the Jeffersonian Institution," he said by way of explantion.

The other kid chimed in, "Do you have any swim suits with bones or skeletons on them? My mommy is a forsic anthopogist!"

"Come on, guys; give this lady a break. They don't sell insect and bone suits! Let's just look at some that are a color you like," the curly-headed man chided.

"Great idea, Hodgins. If you kids want to have free time at the pool before practice, we need to get a move on! Pick out a few suits to try on, pick one you like, and let's get on with our day. Chop, chop!"

After considerable squirming, complaining, whining, objections from the shoppers, both grown and youthful; and a number of costume changes, Hank chose Reebok board shorts in a swirled pattern of greens from dark to light. Michael Vincent took quite a bit longer to make a selection. I gathered that his mother was an artist to whom color variations are significant. She had obviously passed on her eye for artful design to her son. His eventual selection was a tie-dyed Adidas suit of dark blues, deep purples, and black which reached almost to his knees.

Purchases chosen, the fathers herded their sons to my check-out counter and inserted their credit cards into the machine.

"Dad, I thought you swiped your card down the side of that gadget," Hank said, observantly.

"Nope, Hank, they've changed the technology. Now it's got a little chip in there, so you stick it in the slot at the bottom, " Michael Vincent told his buddy.

I slid each of the suits into a logoed shopping bag, and handed one to their respective young owners.

"Hope you enjoy your summer, and these suits, boys."

"Oh, we will; thank you!" they chorused.

"Thank you; we surely appreciate your help and patience!" both fathers said with broad grateful smiles. "Our wives are going to handle the back-to-school shopping this year!"

"Come on, boys. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey! The water's a'waitin'!" Booth declared, as he replaced his card in his wallet. But the boys were already nearly to the door. He and Hodgins gave me one last smile and chased their sons out into the parking lot.


	31. Chapter 31

The File Sorter in the Scholar: Dr. Jonathan Goodman

The head of the Jeffersonian cultural anthropology department heaved a dramatic sigh for the umpteenth time this morning. He had dispatched his wife and daughters to his in-laws' home for the holiday weekend, knowing that he could no longer postpone the task at hand.

Helen had taken the six-year-old twins to see Fourth of July fireworks arcing across the sky over Buffalo Lake where her parents had built their little vacation cabin thirty years earlier. Ben and Violet McPartland were both school teachers, having met at Illinois Normal College as freshmen.

They had worked hard, saved their money and retired as principals; he from George Washington Carver Middle School, she from Booker T. Washington High School, the first African-American woman to serve as a secondary principal in Richmond.

Buffalo Lake is a tiny offshoot of the Meherrin River in Mecklenberg County. It was here, as sophomore archaeology students on a summer dig at the Buffalo Springs Historical Archeological District; that Jonathan and Helen had met.

A comfortable two-hour drive from their Richmond home, the cabin had been a wonderful weekend retreat from guiding students and summer relaxation spot for the McPartland family. Helen and her sister Hannah had sorely missed its peaceful scenery once they headed off to college.

Shaking off his reverie, Dr. Goodman tried to focus his attention on the boxes of files he had to clean out. Once he had returned from his summer of teaching at the University of Montreal, he and Dr. Camille Saroyan had sat down to delineate their division of duties. Unlike Temperance Brennan, Goodman had taken an immediate liking to the former NYC coroner.

Her outgoing personality made interaction easy and pleasant. As much as he cherished Dr. Brennan, Cam was a much better fit for administrative leadership of the Jeffersonian's Medico-Legal Lab. The post Dr. Goodman now occupied had been vacant for a decade when the Jeffersonian Board of Directors suggested it as an alternative to his plan to accept a teaching position elsewhere.

Eager to retain the benefits of his considerable knowledge, affable nature, and respected reputation, the Board offered Goodman the chance to focus on his beloved historic, cultural, and scholarly anthropology while Dr. Saroyan oversaw the lab's cooperative evidence-examination alliance with the FBI.

The downside to this new exciting job was paperwork. Cardboard boxes sat open all around the scarred desk, and ponderous ring binders were scattered across its surface. Knowing the task of reviewing records would take several months, Goodman set up shop in an empty basement office down the hall from the Jeffersonian's climate-controlled archives. (Who was he kidding? He'd been working down here for a year and had barely made a dent in the copious files.)

He suspected that Thomas Jefferson's first paycheck as a legal clerk could be found in its depths if someone had wanted to examine it. He wanted to divorce this dusty task from his daily work. Files from the 35-year tenure of Granville Tennyson Smith, Ph.D. had been moldering in the Jeffersonian basement vaults since the Anthropology Department patriarch's agile mind had succumbed to Alzheimer's four years before his death.

When the Board hired Dr. Goodman twelve years later, their focus had been on building a doctoral education program and broadening the Unidentified Remains Archive Victim Identification project. This latter was called Limbo by all but Dr. Brennan. Dr. Goodman chuckled to himself, remembering the brilliant accomplished young woman he had hired over much more experienced candidates.

She would never admit to it, but he knew that his quiet mentoring fulfilled a paternal need as well as untangling modern idioms for the literal scientist. While Dr. Goodman knew he would always be her friend and mentor, a certain FBI Agent had recently filled the social void in Temperance Brennan's days.

He judged Seeley Booth to be a good man, not only an extremely skillful investigator and highly principled federal employee, but also a worthwhile, conscientious and kind human being. The man is an excellent counterpart to Brennan, the perfect partner for her, in many more ways than either individual was yet ready to admit, privately or publicly.

Jonathan Goodman and his wife had been close friends of David Barron and Caroline Julian, godparents to their daughter during the legal-eagle duo's marriage; and still maintained strong though separate relationships with both people. When Helen invited Caroline for dinner and bridge four months ago, they had taken turns predicting how long the platonic 'partnership' would last before Booth and Brennan admitted the strong attraction obvious to everyone but them.

Goodman doggedly stuck to his task for the next two days. The holiday closure of the museum's offices had quadrupled his efficiency in the quiet basement, despite the throngs of tourists overhead. He closed the 1952 Identified Remains folder, noting with satisfaction that they identified more individuals in a month than the Jeffersonian had in that entire year.

His cell phone jangled with the Lara Croft Tomb Raider theme music.

"Daddy! You missed-ded the Bestest fireworks last night! They went 'BOOM' and I hadta cover my ears!" Samaya exclaimed.

"Why didj'a hafta stay at your office, Daddy?" Kamari whined. "We didn't have anyone to put worms on our hooks to go fishing! Granpa hurt-ted his hand last week. All Grammy and Momma would say is 'Ewwwww'!"

"When you ladies get back to DC tomorrow afternoon, I promise we'll go out for ice cream," their father responded. "Sammie, do I need to holler, or can you hear me okay?"

"No, Daddy, I can hear fine!" Samaya giggled.

"Kammie, I hope you didn't ruin Grammy's flower garden like last time you tried digging up fishing worms!"

"No, Daddy, Granpa told us we couldn't. He has his hand wrapp-ted up," Kamari explained.

"Girls, may I speak to your mother?"

"Sure, Daddy, see you soon, we miss you, we love you, bye, MOMMA! Daddy wants to talk to you!" his daughters said all in one breath.

His wife's voice came over the phone. "You missed quite a colorful display, Jon; and we've missed you. Were you able to get a lot accomplished living like a hermit?"

"Honey, I've missed you too. The house is as quiet as this basement, and that's far too silent. Is your dad's hand bad?"

"No, he sprained it weeding the flowers. Says it hurts but his grand-daughters distracted him."

"Love you, Helen. Be careful driving home. See you soon."

"Love you more, Jon. Please take that lasagna out of the freezer before you leave in the morning, so it's ready when we get home. I certainly don't want to cook after driving two hours with these monkeys!"

"Sure thing, Sweetheart. Can't wait til you're back."

 **A/N: The origin of this chapter, you ask? Two weeks of solid cleaning out, packing, sorting, donating, and discarding a lifetime of belongings for an older relative, which is why I haven't posted any Summer Challenge stories! I wouldn't relish living in a tiny house, but I've resolved to adopt that mindset so my kids don't have to face this sort of monumental task someday. Happy Labor Day weekend!**


	32. Chapter 32

Brennan was finally settled at her desk for an evening for proofing her latest chapters for final revisions. Booth had a hockey game with Wendell; and had invited her to watch their match, but she sadly declined due to her insistent publisher's pressing deadline. Booth had declared over their lunch at the diner that she ought to fire the woman and get a publisher who truly appreciated her genius.

"Booth, I'm under contract for this one more book before I can make any changes to our agreement. My attorney did include a clause allowing me to request a new contact person at the publisher if I wasn't happy with whoever they assigned to me; but I don't want to cause problems for Naomi if I can avoid it. She has been very reasonable up until now; I'm wondering if her personal life is in turmoil. This aggravating frame of mind is very unusual for what I've observed of her behavior in the past. But I will definitely keep your advice in mind, if communication continues to deteriorate between us."

She had brewed a pot of Earl Grey tea from the stash that Angela gave her last birthday, and purchased some fat-free half and half to treat herself as a consolation prize for missing Booth's match. She took a sip, pleased that it had cooled to exactly the right temperature. Chewing on her pencil, she read a sentence several times, considering her choice of wording.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Brennan sighed, pushed back her chair and cross the living room to answer her door. Mindful of Booth's constant concerns, she peered through the security peep hole and spotted her spry older neighbor, Mrs. Hanson. Opening the door, Brennan smilingly invited her to come in. The lady reminded her of what she hoped her grandmothers might have been, had she been able to know them. Kind, concerned with others, and graciously outgoing, Mrs. Hanson had been the first resident of the condo apartment building to welcome Brennan when she moved in. Somehow sensing Brennan's hesitancy with strangers, she had never forced herself upon the scientist, but left cookies at her door occasionally, and always spoke as they passed in the hall or stairway. Until Booth, Mrs. Hanson had been the only person to whom Brennan gave a key to her apartment. The doorman of course had one, but it was helpful to exchange keys just in case the two neighbors ever needed one another.

Mrs. Hanson apologized for interrupting Brennan's evening.

"I won't stay long, Temperance, but I have something for you."

She handed Brennan a long slender box, drew a deep breath and explained, "My best friend from college passed away very unexpectedly last month. She had diabetes and was never very good about watching her diet as she dearly loved to cook and enjoyed eating even more. Her blood sugar levels were apparently off the chart, and her daughter said she went into a diabetic coma without ever realizing what she'd done to herself. It's a shame; for she was a dear soul and a wonderful friend. It has got me to thinking about my situation, and I've resolved better to prepare for the future. At some point, I'll need to downsize and move to a retirement center or assisted living situation. I don't want my kids having to dispose of my things, so I'm doing it myself, a little at a time. This Depression glass bud vase is one that I received from one of my History professors at Stanford one Christmas. She was my doctoral supervisor, but moreover a dear friend and an outstanding mentor. I've enjoyed this little pink vase so much, and wanted to pass it on to someone close to me. I've enjoyed living near you and hope to continue doing so for a good many more years, but you may consider this a small 'just in case' gift, because you never know what tomorrow holds. I hope it will bring you as much joy as it has me. I just love its delicate color and slender swirled design."

Brennan opened the lid and smiled at the slim Art Deco bud vase nestled in tissue paper.

"You are a special person, Tempe, and I want you to know I value your friendship very much. You remind me of my younger self, before I met Milton. That handsome partner of yours is quite a keeper too, dear, you should be sure he doesn't slip away. There. I've stuck my nose where it doesn't belong, and said my piece, so I'll go and leave you to it, let you get back to your writing. I do hope your next book comes out soon! I do so love reading Andy's and Kathy's adventures. Have a good evening, Tempe, and thanks for listening to my prattle."

And with that, Mrs. Hanson rose, hugged Brennan's shoulder, walked to the door, let herself out, and closed it quietly. Brennan was dumbfounded. She stared at the unexpected gift, and smiled in spite of her surprise. Booth was correct. You never knew where happiness would come from.


	33. Chapter 33

The Neighbor's Daughter

Brennan exited the elevator on her floor and shifted her messenger bag and shoulder-strapped brief case as she walked down the hall. She rarely carried the second item, but it handled the volume of files she had to review this evening for an upcoming Jeffersonian Board of Directors' meeting. They had requested a report on Bone Storage Identification. She knew her team of interns had made admirable progress the past five years in giving names to many anonymous residents of what Booth and her staff called Limbo. The Board of Directors was considering an increase to the forensic anthropology education budget and the number of people identified in Bone Storage was the best measure of success for her Intern Program. It had been discontinued when she took off for Maluku, but since her return, the program had produced an impressive roster of Ph.D. graduates now active across the United States and several other countries. While Brennan was quite familiar with these statistics of her mentoring success, she wanted to mention specific cases during her presentation to the Board. Booth had suggested this approach, noting that humanizing the Bone Identification process would make Board members more likely to approve the budget increase.

As lost in thought as she was, Brennan passed Mrs. Hanson's apartment without noticing the absence of the ivy plants which normally graced its entry. Just as Booth had a fake plastic rock next to his doormat, Mrs. Hanson had a beautiful Chinese Evergreen and a Philodendron outside her apartment. From her occasional visits with her neighbor, Brennan knew she also cultivated Snake Plant, Pothos, Cast Iron Plants, and Jade Plants in pots around her home. Clarene Hanson told Brennan she had chosen these species for their ability to tolerate low light and infrequent watering during the times she was out of town visiting her son or daughter and grandchildren. At an earlier stage in her life, Mrs. Hanson had loved growing African violets, but the velvety little plants were too finicky for the time she could devote to them now.

Unlocking her front door, Brennan slipped out of her bags and went to fix herself a quick supper. Reheating some vegetable lasagna, she placed the remaining spinach salad from last night in a bowl and added its tangy dressing. She carried the food and iced tea to her coffee table and sat down to read. Forty five minutes into her task, she heard a knock at her door and rose to answer it. A habitual peek through the security porthole revealed a middle-aged woman standing outside. Brennan opened the door and asked how she could help her unexpected visitor.

Hello, Dr. Brennan, I apologize for disturbing you. I'm Imelda Farthington, Mrs. Hanson, your neighbor's daughter. We've met, but it was a while ago. I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment?"

"Of course, Mrs. Farthington, I should have recognized you. Please come in. You bear a striking resemblance to your mother, although your eye color and stance probably come from your father. Is Mrs. Hanson all right?"

Imelda Farthington chuckled. She had heard stories from her mom about Dr. Brennan's propensity for impromptu lectures on hereditary features and family resemblance. Her mother was very fond of the scientist and greatly admired her intellect, having been a retired professor herself.

"Mother suffered a slight stroke a few days ago and was taken to GW. She is doing fairly well, but is under observation to determine whether she can return home or needs an assisted living situation for a time. Mother's been consciously downsizing lately and she told me last month she planned to give you that little pink bud vase. She's determined to clear out her 'lifetime of stuff' as she calls it, so we don't have to. I'm grateful because Ted's father passed away last summer, and cleaning out my in-laws farmhouse was a monumental task. We were both exhausted physically and drained emotionally."

Brennan responded wistfully. "I didn't get the chance to know either set of my grandparents well, and my family moved frequently. I was so surprised and deeply touched when your mother came over with that delicate little vase. Her thoughtful gift was so unexpected, and a very meaningful gesture. I have it sitting on my bedside table, and a friend has taken it upon himself to keep it filled with fresh flowers all the time. It meant more than I can express that your mother wanted to share that little keepsake with me."

"Mom can surprise you with her kind nature. She's usually a little irascible, and not given to showing her feelings often," chuckled the daughter.

"Since she went to the hospital, I've been staying at her apartment and took Mother's plants in from the hallway to give them more light. I don't have her green thumb, and wouldn't you know it? I think I've managed to kill those two; they are looking really bad; dropping leaves and wilting! She will be very upset with me if they die."

Brennan smiled a bit at her visitor's consternation. "I think if you move them back out into the hall, you'll find those plants will recover rather quickly. Plants like other species don't appreciate having their habitual environments disrupted. Re-establishing their homeostasis should allow them to flourish once more."

Imelda Farthington had to suppress a grin. Her mother was right, Dr. Brennan did sound as though she had swallowed the Encyclopedia Britannica.

"I'll be sure and do that, Dr. Brennan. It looks like you're engaged in a project here. I don't want to take any more of your time, but Mom asked me to let you know where she was. Said you've been so kind to check on her frequently, and didn't want you to worry."

Brennan flushed. "I've been so involved in two difficult cases and preparing a comprehensive report that I've been at my office late all this week. I haven't checked on your mom in the last few days, not wanting to disturb her at night. I feel badly I didn't realize she wasn't home. Frankly, I didn't even notice her plants were gone from the doorway. So much for my powers of scientific observation," she said ruefully.

"Don't feel badly, Dr. Brennan. Mom hates anyone making a fuss over her. But she does appreciate your friendship and knowing you are nearby. So do my brother Thomas and I. It makes living away from Mom a little easier. Though I haven't talked to you, we both knew from Mother's description of your visits, how caring and helpful you've been when she needed it."

"I should have suggested this earlier, but let's exchange cell numbers and email addresses to keep in contact, Mrs. Farthington. Please give your mother my best. I will complete this report and its presentation in the next few days. I'll stop by the hospital to see your mother if she'll be confined there a while longer. I will also bring the name of the rehabilitation facility where my father stayed when he injured his hip in a fall last year. They took excellent care of him, and restored his mobility quite effectively, although he hated the physical therapy they demanded he complete. "

"If elderly people weren't feisty and stubborn, they wouldn't have survived this long, right?" Imelda Farthington observed with a knowing smile. "Sounds like your dad is as much a character as Mom."

Brennan grinned back. "That is an understatement for sure. My dad Max is one of a kind and a real rascal. Give my best to your mom, Mrs. Farthington, and thank you so much for stopping by to let me know."

"Take care, Dr. Brennan. I'll keep you posted on Mom's progress. Thanks again. Enjoy the rest of your evening."


	34. Chapter 34

A Jeffersonian Visitor

Hi, I'm Mariah Thompkins. I'm a student at Alexander Hamilton Elementary in Alexandria. Today my class is on a field trip to the Jeffersonian Museum for our fifth grade end-of year party and 'graduation blowout' as my dad calls it. It's where we voted to go, because it's been our favorite place for field trips ever since we first visited in kindergarten to see the dinosaurs.

There is a very smart lady who knows everything there is to know about bones, and dinosaurs and how people lived a hundred thousand million jillion years ago! She gives the bestest tours of the museum. Her name is Dr. Brennan.

There was one program about people from different groups of our ancestors who didn't like the other people who were almost like us. There was a lady from one group who married a man from another group and they had a little girl. This family had to live all by themselves because neither group would let them live with them. A wild animal or something attacked them, and the man tried to fight it to save his family. The lady did too, but they were both hurt really bad and died.

Their little girl was three years old. She had nobody to feed or help her, and she died too because she couldn't find anything to eat or take care of herself. Her mom and dad were already dead, and there was nobody else around. She got very weak and sick, and laid down between her parents to make herself feel better. But she didn't get better; she died too. All because the two groups of different people wouldn't help her family or take care of a kid who needed help. Dr. Brennan told us all about this when we visited in third grade.

When we were in fourth grade, we saw an exhibit of some African people who were on a ship coming to America. They didn't come because they wanted to; they were slaves since some mean people had captured them in Africa and put chains on their legs. While they were crossing the ocean, there was a terrible storm, and the ship sank.

200 years later, the people who work at the Jeffersonian helped figure out who they were. It was very sad, especially since I know my ancestors were slaves. During that field trip, we met all the Jeffersonian staff and Dr. Saroyan said that happened to her too. It made me feel better to hear that. My family came back and saw this exhibit. One lady drew faces for all the slaves who died. I wonder if they were glad they drownded on the ship instead of being slaves so far from home.

Dr. Goodman used to be one of the bosses at the Jeffersonian. He came back for our field trip today because his nephew Darius is one my classmates. I love to hear him talk; his voice is deep and boomy. We get to spend the night at the Jeffersonian since Dr. Goodman knows us. I'm so excited to sleep in the museum because Dr. Brennan said that stars painted on the ceiling glow at night to show the constellations.

Today we get to see Dr. Hodgins' bug collection. Most of the animal collections at the Jeffersonian are already dead, but these are alive! My teacher Miss Scott isn't as happy about this program as we are. She doesn't much like bugs. We had to promise to follow Dr. Hodgins' directions _exactly_ and listen to him. If he says 'Stop!' and we don't, our parents have to come pick us up _right then._ So I think even Sam Ricks is gonna behave this time!

In the morning, our breakfast will be what Dr. Brennan says for-en-sic an-thro-po-lo-gists eat when they go on digs away from their camp: Granola! I hope we can come back to the Jeffersonian next year in middle school. It is my favorite place in Washington DC, even better than Arlington National Cemetery where my uncle Jason is. If you get the chance, you should come to DC and go to the Jeffersonian! You will love it as much as I do! Promise!


	35. Chapter 35

Mr. Buxley Remembers

Ah, tonight did my heart good. Seeing Temperance dancing with that handsome FBI partner of hers was a pleasant sight to behold. Haven't seen a couple fit so well together since my Mabel and I. It still hurts when I remember the pleasure of dancing with my wife, gone these nine years, but the ache was worth it tonight to see Tempe enjoying herself for a moment.

Despite the fact that those two were undercover working a case, I'd have to be a blind man not to notice their connection and see how well suited for one another they are. When I remarked as much to Tempe, she sputtered like a campfire during a rain shower that they are 'just partners' and Agent Booth also assured me that there is nothing between them beyond a strong friendship and professional connection due to their safety and lives being dependent upon their cooperation and awareness of each other.

Bull hockey, I say. One of these days, those two will stop denying reality and 'get together completely, unless they are way more dense than I give them credit for. I can understand Temperance's reluctance to open her heart to anyone, given the awful things she went through during high school here in Burtonville.

The Carters were terrible people, and should never have been granted foster parent status. I tried to tell the principal as much, but who listens to an eccentric janitor? I grew up in this same little town, lived out in the woods on a small acreage with my folks, who were much older than everyone else's parents; pretty old-fashioned and set in their ways. But Ma and Pa were kind folk, and never mistreated me like Tempe was.

Oh, I'm not sayin' I didn't get many a lickin' when Pa got mad at me for sluffing off on my chores. But it wasn't like I didn't deserve a few swats for smokin' behind our barn, or burying the mules' feces under the straw occasionally when I didn't feel like shoveling it out of their stalls for the umpteenth time. Trouble with that way, Pa's nose was as sharp as a bloodhound's sense of smell. He never missed a scent. That man could track game almost as well as Rufus and Harvey, our dogs.

But I digress. (Yes, I do have a strong vocabulary. Could've gone to college, scored pretty high on the ACT. I just didn't care for any more book learning. I knew enough about animals from hunting them for food. I like Burtonville. And working at the high school allowed me to do some mentoring for kids like Tempe, since Mabel and I weren't able to have any children of our own.

Ovarian cancer eventually killed her, but her lady parts just never did work right to get pregnant, neither. Maybe if we'd lived in a big city, closer to a university or research medical center, the doctors would've known how to help her conceive, or found the cancer early enough to save her. But we didn't, and that's just life.

I've helped a lot of Burtonville students over the years, and most of them appreciated it, and let me know so. Made something good of themselves. But none of them was as intelligent and motivated as Temperance Brennan. That girl was goin' places.

Any fool could've seen that. Even those cruel Carters, and the teachers who shut their eyes to the obvious, if they'd taken the time to care. That sensitive kid was just aching for some kindness. The fact that I'm the oddball janitor made it easy for me to help her out a bit. I could snipe at the mean kids, give them the evil eye real subtle-like, and lessen their teasing Tempe for a time.

We finally got a new guidance counselor Hazel Hawkins who noticed her brilliance, and a new principal Tom Henderson who took a real interest in his students. Those two folks got Tempe an afternoon job in the school library, encouraged her to apply for every scholarship known to man, and made her believe she could shine.

She was always determined to gain an advanced education, knowing that was the path to freedom once she aged out of the foster system, and the hardest worker I've ever met. Studied more intensely and longer than anyone else, worked like a fiend at whatever task she set herself to accomplish. But every youngster needs a cheering section, a peanut gallery to reinforce their belief in themselves.

The three of us did that for Tempe. The counselor and principal helped her with the complicated stuff; Mabel and I gave her affection and some respite from her foster homes. Fed her a home-cooked meal now and then. And boy, could my Mabel cook! Even taught Tempe how to cook for herself.

We wanted to get her a pretty dress for the prom, but that blockhead Andy Flueger was as blind as they come. She spent that evening with us instead, learning to make Mabel's special macaroni and cheese. God, how I miss that woman and her comfort food!

So when Tempe re-appeared in Burtonville, just in time for her class reunion, accompanied by that handsome FBI Agent partner of hers, I was jubilant! Their undercover roles were perfect! Timing couldn't have been better! The two of them played it cool, sniffed out the truths about the deaths of those two poor girls, and put all her snooty former classmates in their places.

The dumb-founded looks on their faces were priceless when Agent Booth announced who they really are, and arrested that stuck up woman, who's still as self-centered and immature as the day she walked across the commencement stage—well, that was one of the best days I've had in my life. Tempe got her justice and gave those old biddy hens their come-uppance!

Well, I've gotta go empty the rest of the trash, and get these floors mopped. My stomach's a-growlin' and I need to get home to watch the news. Tempe's newest book is coming out, and the Columbus literary reporter is interviewing her about it. I don't understand quite how they're pulling that off, with Tempe in DC and the reporter out here in Ohio, but I'm not that up on computers. No matter, I can't wait to read The Dust in the Bones! Tempe's publisher always mails me her books the day they come out!


	36. Chapter 36

The Jeffersonian's Political Historian

Of all the employees of the Jeffersonian Institution, I'm probably the least well-known. That fact doesn't bother me in the least, but when I get the opportunity to educate our visitors about the American political process, I truly enjoy my job. It seems fitting that our institution's founder mandated a department dedicated to United States election history, since the Jeffersonian is located in our nation's capital.

My name is Thomas Morgan, not that it matters, and I am the Jeffersonian's political historian. I'm the seventh person to occupy this post, but in the past our services have been limited to assisting academics and individuals running for office. Only recently has our mission been expanded to include an outreach to the general public. Part of this involves developing programs to educate our citizenry on the political process.

Thalonius Adams, the eccentric president of the Jeffersonian Board of Directors has come to my office numerous times over the last few years, visibly distraught and concerned about the declining number of people who go to the polls to vote. He entreated me to help change this trend. And so we have endeavored to do so. I suspect whether or not it is successful will not become evident until a few decades have passed. But we try.

We have instituted a permanent exhibit dealing with the history of presidential elections through our two and a half centuries of existence, and an unparalleled collection of campaign memorabilia. Buttons, posters, hankies, pennants, stickers, mugs, hats, baseball caps—you name it, we've got them.

Part of this department's outreach is a changing exhibit of state elections. We rotate our displays to feature different states, two at a time, so that in slightly over two years, we showcase each state's electoral process and history. For some states, like those of New England and the other original colonies, we have so many artifacts that we have to alternate which items are shown. Obviously, for the states which entered the Union later, the number of artifacts is proportionally smaller and we are able to display the whole collection simultaneously.

We introduced this States Electing exhibit five years ago, and it is gaining in popularity as it becomes more widely known. The staff at the Jeffersonian has agreed to disagree in the interest of civility, for our employees' political leaning cover the spectrum from conservative to liberal. I'd say the liberals tend to outnumber their conservative co-workers, just because we are inside the Beltway, but both camps are equally vociferous and convinced they are right.

I normally relish my career, but I must admit I was saddened recently to read of, and hear on the news about a fundraising speech made by Mrs. Clinton. She reportedly expressed her opinion that many of the voters supporting Mr. Trump comprise a 'basket of deplorables' and went on to describe what she considers the less desirable traits of these supporters. While I fully support freedom of speech for any candidate, this particular comment of Hilary Clinton seems untoward and mean-spirited. A bit immature, like calling names on the playground. And Barbra Streisand's song choices really didn't help the civility of the evening.

Now, this is not to say that Donald Trump hasn't thrown his share of barbs at his opponent. In talking about her campaign, he opined that 'they are causing a lot of bad decisions to be made by some very good people' which strikes me as likely to irritate some voters, but it doesn't approach the ill-mannered tone of Clinton's statement.

My workdays are always more lively in election years. During campaign season, when I'm eating my lunch in the Jeffersonian breakroom or cafeteria, I've frequently found myself unwillingly thrust into the role of referee or moderator. Various co-workers will entreat me to agree that their political opinions are more savvy than those of others. Or they request historical evidence from me to support their positions.

I have found that the only way I can maintain my work relationships, and stay friends with these passionate people, is to observe strict neutrality. Like news reporters are _supposed_ to do. I believe Walter Cronkite and Chet Brinkley would be appalled at the tendency of contemporary reporters to entwine their opinions with the news. In their zeal to fill the 24/7 news cycle of constant coverage, they have lost their objectivity.

Some of my co-workers and associates are better at well-reasoned political discourse than others. Dr. Jack Hodgins is quite conservative in some of his political opinions, while his wife, Angela is liberal. Dr. Temperance Brennan and her partner Agent Seeley Booth are both moderate, but view the political landscape quite differently. These folks can discuss heatedly and disagree vehemently, but they do so politely and civilly. Their respectful comments are often more effective than the put-downs of others.

I expected to catch considerable flak from the Board of Directors from publishing this commentary in the employee newsletter Thomas' Tome last month, but decided I would gladly endure their wrath if it improved the civility of our political discourse. Much to my surprise, several directors requested copies of my remarks and passed them on to colleagues beyond the Jeffersonian. My piece was published in the _New York Times_ and the _Washington Post_ and quoted on the floor of Congress earlier this week.

I'm gratified by this sharing of my observations. In a republic or a democracy, informed participation by all citizens is vital. Each person should carefully examine the issues and candidates and exercise their right to vote. To do otherwise negates their right to complain or gripe about conditions in our nation. Or so I would like to believe. The truth is that people will fuss and moan and groan regardless of whether they voted. But our right to discuss, disagree and dissent is only effective if we go to the polls to express our opinions. On this point, I'm pretty sure ole Thomas Jefferson would agree with me. Give it some thought.


	37. Chapter 37

Christine's Teacher

"Mommy, Ms. Patterson wants you to call her in the next few days," Christine announced as she dropped her back pack onto the floorboards and clambered into the back seat of her mother's Prius. It was Brennan's turn to pick up her daughter and Michael Vincent Montenegro-Hodgins from Eisenhower Elementary School after their creative movement class and return to the Jeffersonian for the remainder of the afternoon. Often her involvement with a case precluded doing this and the job fell to Angela, but Brennan tried to fulfill her turn at chauffeuring as frequently as possible.

Michael Vincent spoke up. "We have a new kid in class, Auntie Bones, she's from Sindy!"

"Could you mean Sydney, Michael?" Brennan inquired with a smile.

"I dunno, I thought that's what she said." he admitted.

Once the children were back at the Jeffersonian Day Care, munching on apple squares and starting their homework papers, Brennan returned to their office and pulled the school's office number up on her cell phone to make the requested call. The secretary connected her to Ms. Patterson's classroom and a pleasant voice answered the phone.

"Melanie Patterson speaking, how may I help you?"

"Ms. Patterson, it's Christine mother-"

"Dr. Brennan, thank you for calling me so quickly. I'm hoping you can help with a small classroom issue."

"Has Christine done something unacceptable?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that! We have a new student whose father works for the Australian Embassy. The children have been doing a great job of welcoming her, but she is quite homesick. One of the other teachers told me you have done anthropological work down under on several digs, and I thought perhaps you might pay our class a little visit next week. I discussed my idea with Alice's mother and she thought it might help."

"Alice?"

"Yes, Alice Campbell, our new student. She attended another school last spring when they first arrived; a private academy used by many foreign diplomats for their children. The students were rather exclusionary, and Alice's parents chose to transfer her to Eisenhower this year."

"Hanover Preparatory School?" Brennan inquired acidly.

How did you know—urm, I shouldn't be sharing that information," Ms. Patterson stammered.

"Ms. Patterson, I'm aware of that academy. It has a fine reputation for excellent scholastics, but that's not the first episode of students acting unkindly toward their peers. I can't share how I know that either," Brennan said quietly. Hanover Prep was where Nestor Olivos had been found hanging from a tree early in Booth and Brennan's working together. While he was several years older than Christine and  
Alice, Brennan had no doubt that the snobbery of Hanover's student body pervaded even the primary grades.

Melanie Patterson blinked like an owl for a moment at this revelation, then smiled. "I guess both our professions require discretion and confidentiality. I know your work with Agent Booth involves many things you can't discuss at a Bunco game."

"I've never played Bunco."

Ms. Patterson laughed. "Me neither, but my college roommate was crazy about the game. It bored me to tears the one time she got me to try it. But, no matter. My hope is that you could visit our class, and share a few facts about Australia. It is such a fascinating country. Alice was upset last week at lunch that her family has run out of the Vegemite they brought with them from Sydney, and her mother has yet to find a store here in D.C. which stocks the spread. She misses so much about her home and school. We are studying the seven continents in Geography this year anyway, and I thought the children would enjoy a first-hand description of different places. I know you've traveled extensively in your forensic career, so maybe you'd be willing to come talk to the children periodically about what you experienced during your digs. Christine is quite popular among her classmates due to her daddy's FBI connections."

"I hope our daughter isn't bragging on or flaunting her father's position—"

"Oh, no, she doesn't do any such thing. But the boys remember very well when Agent Booth came for Career Day last year. Every one of them aspires to join the FBI when they grow up. Your husband is a very impressive man, and they all admire him."

Brennan smiled in spite of herself. "Yes he is very impressive. I'd be happy to come talk to the class." She pulled a small notebook from her messenger bag.

"Did you have a specific date in mind? I have a book tour in New England coming up over Fall Break, and we hope to take our children to see the fall leaves and tour some Revolutionary War historic sites. The Montenegro-Hodgins family may come with us."

"I think the sooner the better. Alice will benefit from hearing you talk about Australia, and her mother Leslie is hoping to be here that day as well. Would next Wednesday work for you?"

"Yes, that's fine. Perhaps I could speak to Mrs. Campbell before then, and meet her and Alice, as well."

"That's perfect, Dr. Brennan. I can't thank you enough for going out of your way to assist a student."

"Ms. Patterson, you are a superb teacher, and we're very glad the school decided to try keeping a class with the same teacher for two consecutive years. From the journals I've read, I think it's an excellent idea to provide educational consistency for young children in the classroom during their critical formative years. You were wonderful with Chrissy last year; Booth and I were thrilled when we learned that she would have you for her teacher again this year."

"How do you find time to read educational journals with everything else you do?"

"I'm fortunate to read very fast. My father was a teacher and he taught me to speed read when I was a child. But Ms. Patterson, I must be frank with you. Alice may be disappointed to learn that I am not at all fond of Vegemite. I tried it several times at the urging of a scientist friend from New Zealand I met on that Australian dig. It is extremely salty, and definitely an acquired taste. Just not one that I acquired," Brennan admitted ruefully.

"But the joeys, wallabies, and koalas are fascinating. I don't care as much for full-grown kangaroos, since one chased me into my tent. The dig director had to shoo her away. Mother kangaroos can be quite protective if you get too close to their young. I made sure to learn the behavioral signs they exhibit when their babies are very young. Once the joeys get a little older, the mothers are more tolerant of humans nearby. "

"This talk of yours will be fascinating for me as well as my class, Dr. Brennan. I can't wait til next Wednesday! Thank you so much for helping Alice and me."

"Thank you for teaching our daughter so expertly, Ms. Patterson. I wish all teachers were as nurturing and skillful as you. Could you please give Mrs. Campbell my cell phone number and email so she can call me to arrange a visit? I think we could meet at Booth's favorite coffee cart on the Mall and enjoy the nice weather."

 **A/N: Whether or not mother kangaroos act this way, I am not entirely sure, but I read somewhere that they are very protective when they first give birth. To all the readers who have left me such kind reviews, thank you. If I've missed responding to you specifically, I apologize. For the last 3 weeks, I've been working frantically to help clear an older relative's home to rent and had little spare time to do anything else. I've fallen behind on this challenge, but appreciate all your thoughtful comments.**

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	38. Chapter 38

Caroline

Cher, I have to take a little credit for Seeley Booth and Dr. Brennan finally getting together after years of that nonsensical insistence that they are only partners in the professional sense of the word. I was, after all, the one who goaded her into kissing him under the mistletoe in order to procure the conjugal trailer in which to give her rascally father his first family Christmas celebration in sixteen years.

Max Brennan could charm the striped socks off a Ronald McDonald statue if he decided to. He is a handsome and persuasive man and it's very evident from whence Dr. Brennan inherited her considerable intelligence. Somehow, though, he didn't pass on his savoir faire, for that p _auvre t-bête_ has no grasp of idioms, slang or popular culture.

Agent Booth has been acting as her interpreter ever since they met! I can't tell you how many times I've heard her remark, "I don't know what that means." She ought to trademark the phrase! Maybe collect royalties on it, although she surely doesn't need the money with all the successful books she's published.

She is definitely not a babe in the woods, however, after all the trauma and mistreatment she withstood during her three years in foster care. She held a grudge against her brother Russ for leaving her behind, but that boy was barely raised himself. How was he to cope with the fits and starts of a miserable younger sister? Waking up Christmas morning, seeing gifts under the tree, she thought her parents had come home. And then to find they're still gone? Coo! No wonder she lost it with him!

B'lieve me, I know how tough teenaged girls can be to handle in the face of confusion and misfortune. My daughter had a much calmer and more stable adolescence than Dr. Brennan, and she caused her daddy and me plenty of headaches raising her! Despite our divorce, David Barron and I got along well, and we made sure we gave Honore a placid home life.

No, I think Dr. Brennan handled her situation as well as she could. That girl's determination, perseverance and work ethic pulled her out of as horrid a situation as Agent Booth faced. The two of them are very different but their strengths and talents are complementary. They'd be stronger if they'd extend that 'partners' thing into all areas of their lives. They practically spend all day and night together as it is.

That Christmas season, I told Dr. Brennan I was feeling 'puckish' but I wanted that pair to demonstrate to themselves how strong their connection is. Once they got started kissing, they kept it up for 'way longer than the five steamboats I'd specified, proving my point. They do share a bond, even if they won't own up to it. It's like they're both scared little quail when it comes to admitting to their feelings. I've never been a very patient woman, but true love can't be rushed or forced. You have to let those emotions and bonds simmer like a good roux.

Now, finally, all these years later, after running off to Maluku and Afghanistan, when I got them to come back here for Cam's sake, Seeley Booth and Temperance Brennan are finally together. It took poor Vincent's death to push them into one another's arms, but once there, they've stuck like glue. And now, a baby girl is on the way to cement the relationship for good. They might not ever tie the knot and marry, but those two are hitched for life, no matter if they've got a piece of paper to prove it or not.

I'd say I've done good, real good! Wouldn't you?


	39. Chapter 39

Sean Murphy

I am Sean Murphy, and I owe my awareness of my father Tim Murphy to one very determined FBI Agent who also happens to be a soldier dedicated to the military's resolve to leave no man behind if humanly possible. This Agent, Seeley Booth, his partner Dr. Temperance Brennan, and the staff of the Jeffersonian Institution restored my father to my mother and me. They didn't resurrect him, and yet they brought him back to life, especially for me.

I had last seen my dad when I was four years old. Haunted by the pain of PTSD, he dropped out of sight and out of our lives. We never knew what happened to him. After years of anguished concern and worry, my mother told herself he was probably dead from violence or exposure. She had searched for him each time he'd disappear, finding him asleep on park benches; afraid to be confined indoors due to flashbacks of the explosions which killed his friends, fellow soldiers, and squad members Walken, Moore, and Park.

He stood outside the Pentagon seeking the Silver Star to honor his friends' bravery. Mom knew Dad was a good man and sorely missed him, but she felt she must move on to provide a sense of stability for me. And so for lack of information, she told me he had abandoned us. Not because he didn't care, but because of the havoc wrought upon his mind by the strain of combat and the guilt of surviving when his three buddies did not.

The PTSD of returning Desert Storm soldiers wasn't handled as well by the military as it is now; fewer counseling programs were available and service members coped as best they could with the nightmares that followed them back home. Their families, like ours, were impacted by the stress of unwillingly remembered combat and unpredictable flashbacks.

I was so young when Dad returned Stateside that my memories of him are foggy. A four year old remembers bits and pieces; playing ball in the front yard, how proud I felt riding on his shoulders, how he tickled me while chasing our dog. Agent Booth made my father's courage real when he spoke at the graveside service.

He said my father carried out three people out of the Pentagon in spite of his fractured rib, dislocating his shoulder and fracturing his spine. I met those people. I met Dr. Vasiri, the intern who refused to give up on identifying my father's remains at the risk of falling behind his peers. He was joined by his fellows and cooperatively they pieced together the puzzle of Timothy Murphy's death.

My father died because he literally broke his body into pieces helping others, puncturing his lung in the process, bleeding out for ten days until his end finally came. I had the chance to meet my father in a sense, through the efforts and research of these people. My father Tim Murphy once again became my greatest hero.

Now that he's been laid to rest, I have a place to visit him with Mom, and one day show my own children where their incredibly brave selfless grandfather lies in honor. He didn't die on 9/11 but was a victim of the senseless violence visited upon our nation that day. However, my father chose to make a difference at the Pentagon, pulling three people away from certain death without considering that his exertions would aggravate his own injuries to a fatal extent.

The lady at the Carlton Street shelter kept my father's personal effects for ten years, believing he would return to claim them. And in a sense, he has. Through the work of the Jeffersonian/FBI team, he has returned to claim his identity, his name and his honor.

My mother and I have established a scholarship for summer interns at the Jeffersonian. It isn't much, but it pays tribute to their tireless efforts to identify my father and other nameless souls. The Tim Murphy Memorial Grant will help insure their work continues to restore lost loved one to other families like ours.


	40. Chapter 40

Ellie Stockton, DC Florist

My husband Dave and I own 'District Blooms' a flower shop in Washington DC. We are pretty well known around the district, having been in business since 1975 when he returned from Vietnam. We serve senators and prominent government officials as well as everyday Washingtonians. But we never brag about our clientele, because some of the key characteristics of a skilled florist are similar to those of a good hairdresser or barber. I'm talking about discretion and tact. We never reveal for whom we prepare bouquets or deliver arrangements, any more than your hair stylist would let on that your hair has begun to go a bit gray and require coloring.

We, like other merchants, have our favorite customers; those folks who are pleasant while placing an order, and grateful for the efforts we put forth to provide fresh plants and fragrant flowers. We silently enjoy watching their lives unfold, as we help mark important events and celebrate milestones with our greenery and blossoms. In a happy realm, we see casual friends become closer, witness first crushes and flings, watch as dating couples move forward in their relationships toward engagements and weddings. And of course, we also share in sadder times, as older people pass on into glory, loved ones become ill, friends are lost. All aspects of life can be marked with flowers. Not everyone chooses to do so, but we are here to serve with our fellow inhabitants of this verdant planet need its bounty to convey emotions of every sort.

Our sons and daughters have been active in the family occupation since they were small, sweeping floors, picking off wilted petals and leaves, restocking the tissue, ribbons and floral papers we use. As they mature, we let them help with more challenging tasks, and learn the art of gently handling greenery and flowers until they can create arrangements on their own.

When our eldest turned 16, he asked if he could try his hand at selling flowers on the Washington Mall nearby. Pleased with his motivation, we agreed to his idea. We apprenticed him to assist an older fellow vendor for that summer, so he could learn the ropes without 'breaking the bank.' Our aging friend appreciated the help, and our son gained the experience he needed.

After a season of learning, Tom set up his own cart in an unoccupied but advantageous spot on the Mall, and plumped up his college fund that summer. And ever since, each in their turn, our four children have run this little venture in free enterprise. One of their most frequent customers is a friendly outgoing fellow named Seeley Booth. He is with the FBI, and I can assure you I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of one of his investigations, for he is thorough, exacting, and fierce indeed when the situation demands it.

But our interactions are of a more pleasant sort, and he always chats as we prepare his purchase. We learned that his dad was a barber, who expected him to help around the shop after school and on Saturdays. I think that's why he patronizes our kids' flower cart so frequently; to encourage their initiative since he's been in their place.

A few years back, he frequently bought flowers from us for his girlfriend, an attractive GWU law student. Listening more than we talked, we knew when she told him there was a baby coming, and refused his sudden but sincere marriage proposal. He was dejected but she was probably right. Being called up for frequent and sudden army deployments to places he couldn't reveal didn't make him the most stable candidate for reliable fatherhood.

But he stuck by her and helped with his child, an adorable little boy he'd bring by once in a while. When the tot became colicky, I found myself reliving those miserable days from raising our kids; giving Booth hints to soothe and comfort his son. From what we've seen, he's a committed and excellent dad.

Our kids have recounted watching Booth and his partner Dr. Brennan meeting for coffee at Joe Henderson's cart over the last few summers, and Joe himself has added his observations when he comes in for his wife's anniversary and birthday bouquets. This 'we're just partners' pair has captivated several Mall vendors as they buy black coffee and bicker, pace back and forth, arguing points of a case we couldn't identify if we tried. They never reveal any details, but discuss their theories and exchange ideas as they work for Lady Justice across the district. With all their arguments, Booth has, from time to time, bought flowers for Dr. Brennan, just as friends of course.

As considerate and generous as he is, Booth's preference for our flowers has been mutually beneficial. He wired flowers to his grandfather, always mums and daisy plants since they're low maintenance, long blooming and his Grams' favorites. His various girl friends were feted with flowers, as well as associates like Dr. Saroyan, Agent Shaw, his office assistant. His long-absent mother when she got married again. And Dr. Brennan.

Our daughter is manning the cart this summer, and being a girl, she's more observant than her brothers regarding subtle changes; in the weather, in politics, in people. She came back to our shop the other day with a knowing glint in her eye, and pulled me into the back room.

"Mom, I think Dr. Brennan might be pregnant. She's walking differently like Aunt Helen did, and she has a little pooch in her belly. You know she's always been so willowy and slim; I just have a hunch. I don't think she and Booth have told anyone, but he's more relaxed and demonstrative than his usual reserved ways. His hand in the small of her back has gotten a little more forward in the last few weeks. Do you think I could be right?"

"Susan, you know what I've told you. God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason. It seems they are closer, but we can't speculate about other people's hearts. You can share this with me all you want, but otherwise enjoy observing Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan and fantasize all you want, but keep your pretty little mouth closed. You hear me, honey? Discretion is key in our profession, and vital to our continued success. You've done really well this summer with the Mall Flower Cart; Dad and I are so proud of you. Just don't let any of your notions slip to anyone else. It would be nice for those two if they've gotten together finally. I hope you are right!"

"I understand, Mom. I know mum's the word. But they're both such great people, and they're so obviously in love, whether or not they'll admit it to themselves or anyone else. I hope, I do hope so!"

"Well, Susie-kins, we'll know soon enough. If there's a baby on the way, he or she will make it obvious in due time! That kind of news no one can hide for long!" I said as I gave her a hug.

Just then Dave came into the workroom. "Ladies, ladies, we won't sell any flowers by gossiping over the gladiolas! What are you two gabbing about?"

Susan grinned at me and said to her father in an innocent tone of voice, "Nothing, Daddy, nothing at all!"

My husband kissed our daughter and gave me a look over her head. He knew I'd update him later in private. The two of us had speculated for years, and have a long-running bet on when Booth and Brennan might finally set a date. The loser has to sweep the shop for a week.


	41. Chapter 41

Wendell, Gardening Wonder

As summer wound down, and the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11 passed, Brennan decided Booth needed cheering up. She planned a house party to use their pool one last time before closing it for the season. She had ambitious plans for expanding her herbs and vegetable plantings for fall and winter consumption, since Booth's doctor had advised him to eat a little less red meat at his last check-up. Her husband was quite healthy for his age, but caution would help insure his longevity, which she very much needed for her long term peace of mind. So to occupy and entertain their guests productively, Brennan conceived a 'plant and plunge' theme for her party. She purchase a broad assortment of winter vegetables, inexpensive brown cotton jersey work gloves, and as many trowels as the guest list was long. Her emailed invitations promised sharing the garden's bounty with any participant as the weather cooled and its hoped-for produce ripened. Booth was only aware she'd invited Andie and Wendell for burgers the next Saturday afternoon.

In a recent conversation over the bones of a Limbo resident, Wendell had talked about his parents raising their family on a railroad worker's income and how they supplemented their grocery purchases with home-grown vegetables. Being a teenager with a scientific bent, Wendell had observed his father's frustration with the declining yield of their garden plot, and decided to find out why. He coaxed his chemistry teacher into helping him test the soil, and determined its deficiencies and how to remedy them with old farmers' techniques rather than expensive technology and additives. Sure enough, he'd fixed the problem, and his dad was delighted with the garden's restored fertility. Brennan had Wendell stop by the Mighty Hut II when Booth wasn't home, and take soil samples, which he and Hodgins tested. They found that the compost pile their boss had insisted Booth make and utilize was very effectively enriching the soil. No doctoring was necessary, to Brennan's relief.

Saturday was warm and sunny. Hank and Christine were in on the secret, and dressed in old clothes without being prompted. Booth wondered aloud why they looked so disreputable when guests were expected for the afternoon, but his children only grinned.

"Mom will tell you!" they giggled.

"Bones?!"

She frowned at her kids. "Couldn't keep a secret just a little longer, could you?"

"Booth, we are having a gardening party today."

"A garden party? These two don't look like any tea guests to me, Bones!"

"Not garden party, Booth, gardening party," his wife clarified. "Now go put on your old jeans. We're planting vegetables and herbs, and then swimming before dinner on the patio. Our guests are going to help, and we'll share our produce with them once it comes in."

"Bones, you're a genius. That sounds far more enjoyable than a fancy-schmancy tea party to me! Getting down and dirty in the soil, as Hodgins insists I call it, is so much more fun! Come on, Hank! Last one to grab a trowel is a rotten egg!"


	42. Chapter 42

Hank at Play

Ms. Gobelson watched with fascination as Hank Booth laboriously toted a huge armful of wooden blocks from the shelf to his play area. She had worked at the Jeffersonian Day Care for nearly two decades, and thus had supervised Parker occasionally, seen Christine grow from little sprite to rising kindergartener, and now Hank was in her three-year old class. The Booth children were all normally polite, nearly always considerate of others, and intelligently curious. Their mother's forensic occupation bothered none of them in the least; and were fascinated by her skeletons. But there the similarities stopped.

Parker had been four when Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan had begun working together, were quarantined at the Jeffersonian Lab over Christmas, and Zack Addy's robot was the 'best present ever!' He was ten when Christine came to be one tragic, emotion-filled night. Ms. Gobelson knew he stoutly maintained his daddy and Dr. Bones should get together because he'd confide as much to her after attending the Jeffersonian Young Scientist Program and waited on his mom or dad to pick him up. She'd always had a way with children and seemed a trustworthy soul to hear their deepest secrets and desires. (She'd learned long ago that kids are often perceptive judges of character.) He was an exuberant outgoing child with his father's kind spirit.

Christine was quieter, a mix of her parents' personalities. She was fiercely loyal to her playmates, but a stickler for the truth when someone swiped her favorite toy. She had a prodigious memory and could readily recite the technical names for bones, although her pronunciation included a slight lisp. She had been ready for kindergarten by age 4, and it was fortunate that the Jeffersonian's flexible preschool program could accommodate gifted intellects, or the little girl would have been bored indeed. The day care staff frequently chuckled in their break room over her comments, because she had no filter when it came to revealing what happened at home as the family prepared for their day.

Hank was a sturdy little boy who thought he could do anything. More than once, the day care staff had dismantled his stack of footstools before he could climb to reach a toy. He made full use of every playground structure the facility owned and Booth once ruefully observed that his youngest son might become a fighter pilot like his absent grandfather, for Hank loved to be 'UP, Daddy!' more than anything else. He loved building with Legos, everything from skyscrapers and trucks to highly imaginative buildings.

The most entertaining use he had found for Legos was pretending the tiny block people included in each set were skeletons like his mommy worked on. He would lay one out on a play table, and study it intently. While he was too young to have been fully informed about what his mother's examination of bones entailed, he strove mightily to imitate her as best he could. He held a toy magnifying glass in one hand and peered through it. As best he could understand it, her work was a cross between the game Operation! he played with Christine and the pediatric check-ups he had with Dr. Sageev, so he mimicked those actions as he perceived them.

Of course, these pastimes were a source of delight to the charmed day care staff, and Ms. Gobelson recounted them during a parent-teacher conference with Booth and Brennan.

"Good grief, he's only three and a half," Booth exclaimed.

Brennan said nothing but a fond smile played across her face. "He's going to be a scientist, Booth," she remarked.

"Heck, no, my son is not going to be up to his elbows in goo and gore like you and Cam and Hodgins!"

Ms. Gobelson listened to the pair bicker, as she had during past conferences about their offspring.

"Aw, Bones, I'd hoped Hank would go into law enforcement like me. Chrissy is already turning into a squint, and Parker can still spout those tongue-twisting bone names like an encyclopedia all these years later!"

"Booth, our younger son can pursue multiple careers as he matures. Christine loves sports as much as she loves middle school science. Parker is a successful musician, a talented writer, and an IT wizard. I don't usually like to employ such fantastical words, but his skill at setting my laptop right is hard to describe any other way."

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, I've taught each of your children and their interests are as varied and changeable as fall leaves. I think Hank and Christine will both become highly successful adults, no matter what careers they select. The upbringing and enrichment you are providing for them will prepare them to excel at whatever they enjoy."

"Ms. Gobelson, you are a big part of the reason our kids are so well-adjusted and happy. The secure stimulative environment here at the Jeff's daycare lets all these little guys thrive and explore to their heart's content," Booth told her.

"I fully agree. You deserve a huge amount of the credit for our well-adjusted children," Brennan spoke up. "Booth's and my jobs demand our complete focus to achieve our objectives and keep each other safe, and knowing our children are well cared-for allows us to do just that. We can't thank you enough."

"Your little ones, like so many more, are what makes my life worthwhile. My grandkids are too old and impatient to satisfy my need for cuddling them. These children are happy to share hugs all day long. I wouldn't want any other job, I can assure you. It's a mutually beneficial situation for me and for them. Hank is doing well, and it will sadden me when he moves on to the four-year old group next year. I've enjoyed each of your children more than I can say. Thank you for entrusting them to the Jeffersonian, just as we trust you to catch the bad guys!"

 **A/N: With this chapter, I've managed to complete the Summer Bonesology Challenge, although two weeks late. I appreciate all the thoughtfully detailed reviews I've received on these stories. I've responded to most; if I missed yours, I apologize. Please know that I read and relish the feedback in each one. I wish a large convention could be held to allow Fan Fiction readers and writers to meet and converse in person! It's still** _ **months**_ **until the Bones series resumes for its final (sob!) truncated season, but we must enjoy what Fox grants us. Silly network, they don't realize the treasure they've had in this wonderful show, IMO.**


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